Google
This is a digital copy of a book that was preserved for generations on library shelves before it was carefully scanned by Google as part of a project
to make the world's books discoverable online.
It has survived long enough for the copyright to expire and the book to enter the public domain. A public domain book is one that was never subject
to copyright or whose legal copyright term has expired. Whether a book is in the public domain may vary country to country. Public domain books
are our gateways to the past, representing a wealth of history, culture and knowledge that's often difficult to discover.
Marks, notations and other maiginalia present in the original volume will appear in this file - a reminder of this book's long journey from the
publisher to a library and finally to you.
Usage guidelines
Google is proud to partner with libraries to digitize public domain materials and make them widely accessible. Public domain books belong to the
public and we are merely their custodians. Nevertheless, this work is expensive, so in order to keep providing tliis resource, we liave taken steps to
prevent abuse by commercial parties, including placing technical restrictions on automated querying.
We also ask that you:
+ Make non-commercial use of the files We designed Google Book Search for use by individuals, and we request that you use these files for
personal, non-commercial purposes.
+ Refrain fivm automated querying Do not send automated queries of any sort to Google's system: If you are conducting research on machine
translation, optical character recognition or other areas where access to a large amount of text is helpful, please contact us. We encourage the
use of public domain materials for these purposes and may be able to help.
+ Maintain attributionTht GoogXt "watermark" you see on each file is essential for in forming people about this project and helping them find
additional materials through Google Book Search. Please do not remove it.
+ Keep it legal Whatever your use, remember that you are responsible for ensuring that what you are doing is legal. Do not assume that just
because we believe a book is in the public domain for users in the United States, that the work is also in the public domain for users in other
countries. Whether a book is still in copyright varies from country to country, and we can't offer guidance on whether any specific use of
any specific book is allowed. Please do not assume that a book's appearance in Google Book Search means it can be used in any manner
anywhere in the world. Copyright infringement liabili^ can be quite severe.
About Google Book Search
Google's mission is to organize the world's information and to make it universally accessible and useful. Google Book Search helps readers
discover the world's books while helping authors and publishers reach new audiences. You can search through the full text of this book on the web
at|http: //books .google .com/I
; ■
r
MiHali
~\
i * ^* * r:^'
V
*
:¥.
■^-^/^
* 7
r ^
^ ■■ H.*
' (
» ^
^ .^:-
•
*
4 - s,
• * •
?*e
'
,^
* ■'
V* --.
' J*" - ■
-«
>— ^. p^..
.■**•„
'-i^z-
"-
<'-■ iv'
■**"
' i'/
„ ■>
^
•«j ii
4- r
*
!fc ■** ^* ■■
*'^r' •
-
%
^ 1 .
^ •
*^
€^' ;
,<?«
r
FATHER ANTHONY
Quardlan. — ^**A most excellent story, excellently told, and one
which we commend with the greatest satisfaction to our readers.
The novel is vivid, and full of life and colour ; and the characters
of the two priests, Father Anthony, the delicately-bred, pure-souled
gentleman, and Father John Croly, the jovial, homely, but not less
sincerely pious man of the people, are drawn with singular charm
and sympathy."
Worid. — " There is always a certain fascination about the sanc-
tity of the confessional, and Mr. Buchanan's young priest, who
becomes possessed, in virtue of his office, of a secret ... is an
exceedingly picturesque and pathetic figure. Undoubtedly this
story is as good as, if not better than, anything that Mr. Buchanan
has given us for some time."
Tablet. — " It comes as an agreeable surprise to have a friendly
and sympathetic picture of a priest in English fiction. A thrilling
story. The picture given us of life in the West of Ireland reads
like a transcript from nature by a keen and, we are pleased to say,
a sympathetic observer. Mr. Buchanan has given us an effective
story, which grips our interest, and the treatment of which is so
generally sympathetic that we cannot but be thankful for it."
Daily Qraphlc. — "A vivid romance of the present day, the scene
of which is set in an Irish village, and it is concerned with that
always engrossing problem to some minds : should a priest who
has obtained information under the seal of confession persist in
withholding that information from the minions of the law, even
though withholding it means the sacrifice of an innocent man who
is under the sentence of death? It is a very dramatic situation
worked out in very dramatic fashion."
The Archbishop of St. Andrews and Edinburgh writes: —
"... Have read with a good deal of pleasure. The book is writ-
ten in a very kindly and sympathetic spirit ; and one cannot feel
surprised that the writer (for I suppose he is not a Catholic) has
not quite realized in some respects the idea of how a priest is
bound to act, when placed in so painful a position. That, however,
is but a small matter, and I shall be very pleased to encourage the
circulation of the book in this diocese."
The Bishop of Elphin :— "AH the best qualities of the author's
style are apparent throughout — his marvellous power of poetic and
graphic description, his weird sense of the supernatural, his genial
good nature and love of what is truly lovable in our national char-
acter. I shall make the merits of this work widely known."
FATHER ANTHONY
-J
/•
• « «
•»» .•« ^*
TO N";v YORlt
PUti.J.: : '. ^ARY
A8TOT*, LT:N0X and
TlLO£N roUNDATl^HS
--- ivioaaui ASSOCIATION ^
f^^^W ic?.K CITY "
FATHER ANTHONY
I
^ Romance of To-day
ROBERT BUCHANAN
\
AUTHOR OF "god AND THE MAN," ETC.
With Sixteen Illusiraiions hy Sydney Cowell
Mf RCAKTiLE Library,
NEW YORK.
G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
IT
1
r " " ■
T8 NEW YORK
PUBLIC UCRARY
252204A
ASTOR. LEWOX AND
TILDEN FOUMDATiONB
'••
t.
First Edition, October^ ^899; Second Edition,
October, 1899; Third Edition, November,
1899; Fourth Edition, December, 1899; Fifth
Edition (r^^nw/), January, 1900; New Edition
(illustrated), January, 1900.
-4
■
Copyright, 1899
By ROBERT BUCHANAN
Copyright, 1900
By G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY
Father Anthony
DEDICATION
TO THE REV. JOHN MELVIN
{Formerly Parish Priett of BoeaporU County Mayo)
Dear F'atheb John,
I cum inscrHnng this book mth your name, in memory of our
many meetings among {he sea-mirrounded tnlds of Erris. Cer-
tain scenes and cha/ra4sters in it will be famUia/r to you, and in
" Foither Anilumy " himself you will recognise a dim likeness to
one whom we both knew and loved. For his sake and also for
yours, I shall always fed strong affection towa/rd the Irish
Mother-Church, and towards those ln*a/oe and Hberal-hearted men
who share so cheerfvUy the sorrows and the privations, the sim-
ple joys and duties, of the Irish peasantry.
As I dose (he unpretentious tale, for whidt Idaim only one
m£rit, that of truth to ths life, I look back with regretful tender-
n£ss to the happy years I spent in Western Ireland and to the
friends whom I found there, to ** brighten the sunshine, " Some
have already passed away ; dear ^^ Father Michad,** who sleeps
in his lonely grave at BaUina; amd the good '* Colond/* blithest
and best of hosts and truest of sportsmen, at whose table you de-
nounced the '* Saxon,** to the Saxon* s unending ddight, joining
afterwa/rds till the rafters rang in the chorus of *• John Ped.**
Ever leal, faithful, brave and honest, tolerant to aU creeds yet
staunch and stea/ctfa>st to your own^ you survive, beloved still, I
am, sure, by aU that know you, and stiU carrying with you the
brightness of a kindly gospd and a broadly human disposition.
Bdieve me, dear Father John,
Tours always affectionatdy,
ROBERT BUCHANAN.
London, August, 1898.
P.S.—Ym will find also in these pages another '' Fath^
John,** not to be confounded with yoursdf, whom he resemUes
only in goodness of heart and amiability of temper,
R B.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGB
"I STARTED UP WITH AN INVOLUNTARY CRY I" ... 22
" ONE GLANCE AT THE RECUMBENT FIGURE OF THE GIRL WAS
ENOUGH TO SHOW ME THAT SHE HAD MERELY FAINTED." 38
" HE LIFTED HIS DOG-WHIP AND STRUCK MICHAEL IN THE
74
FACE."
** THE MOMENT I SAW THE CROWD OF BOYS WITH TORCHES,
I KNEW THAT SOMETHING WAS WRONG." .... 76
"IT WAS FATHER JOHN CROLY, OUR PARISH PRIEST, WHO
READ THE SERVICE." 80
" VERY SOFTLY ON TIPTOE FATHER JOHN APPROACHED THE
BED AND TOOK THE YOUNG PRIEST*S HAND IN HIS OWN." 98
** AS THE MAN SPOKE A WOMAN APPEARED IN THE DOORWAY." 1 10
** FATHER ANTHONY SHOOK LIKE A LEAF AT THE TOUCH." 137
" MULLIGAN, YOU THIEF, THIS IS DOCTOR SUTHERLAND." 146
"*IS THAT YOU, RORY?' SHE SAID, PEERING FORTH INTO
DARKNESS." 157
" HE FLED AS IF FOR VERY LIFE." 167
" I FOUND KATHLEEN SEATED ON A STOOL IN THE OPEN AIR." 187
**HE CLUTCHED THE CRUCIFIX IN HIS HANDS, KISSED IT,
THEN RAISED HIS EYES TO HEAVEN AS IF IMPLORING
STRENGTH," 202
"LOOK AT IT, YOUR HONOUR." 212
" HE STAGGERED AND RAN OVER THE BOG TO THE ROAD." 230
" THIS IS GOOD MORNING, MISS CRAIG, AND GOOD-BY." . 254
Kit RCAHTiiE Library.
^ji^'A• YORK.
FATHER ANTHONY
CHAPTER I
On the night of the 15th of October, 18 — , I,
Charles Sutherland, medical doctor of the Univer-
sity of Edinburgh, member of the Royal College of
Surgeons, and for the time being general practitioner
in London, went to bed, slept, and dreamed a
dream.
I thought that I stood on the banks of a great
rain-swollen river, which rushed rapidly towards a
leaden-coloured sea. The banks were vividly green
and covered with large white flowers, the sky was
cloudless but dim, the scene all aroimd me strangely
unfamiliar, and the air oppressed and still. Sud-
denly, however, a cold wind blew in my face, and
my ears were filled with a long low moan.
I gazed again at the waters, which were rushing
on towards the ocean. This time my gaze became
fixed, for in the middle of the stream, half-engulfed
by it, and being ever sucked lower and lower by
the boiling eddies, was the figure of a Woman.
She was clothed in black. Her face, which was
12 FATHER ANTHONY
white as death, was turned towards me. A young
face it seemed, the features delicately moulded; but
their expression was one of intense agony. The
great dark eyes were fixed wildly upon mine, and,
as I returned the look, the woman stretched her
hands imploringly towards me and cried in a low,
despairing voice, "Save me! Save me! Save me!"
three times.
Without a moment's hesitation I answered that
piteous appeal. "I am coming!** I cried; and I
was about to plunge headlong into the water, when
I — awoke.
Awoke to find myself lying in my bed at my
rooms in Wigmore Street, my forehead bathed in
cold perspiration, and my body trembling like a
leaf. I lay for a few moments motionless, gazing
about me with a stupefied air, trying to assure my-
self that I was really in my own place ; then I sat
up in bed and drew my hand across my eyes.
" Pshaw ! " I said to myself, " it was vivid enough,
but it was only a nightmare ! **
True, it was only a nightmare; true, too, I had
often dreamed before ; but hitherto my night visions
had come as they come to ordinary mortals, and
when they had done their work they had faded,
leaving no trace behind. I was, in fact, the least
romantic of men, with a nervous system which,
regularly as clockwork, ensured me sound digestion
and peaceful slumber. But this special dream
FATHER ANTHONY 13
would not fade ; the memory of it clung to me so
tenaciously that although I tried again and again to
sleep I could not; the moment I closed my eyes I
saw again that pale agonised face, heard again that
pitiful voice calling on me for help.
Finding that all attempts to sleep were futile I
unlocked my door and gave a vigorous pull at my
bell ; then I looked at my watch and found that it
was half-past six o'clock.
My little household, however, was early astir; so,
in answer to my summons, my man Feiguson speed-
ily appeared. He tapped at the door, then opening
it, cautiously put in his head and asked softly : —
"Did you ring, sir?"
The question seemed ridiculous, and I answered
somewhat sharply : —
" Of course I rang. Any letters ? *
"No, sir," replied Ferguson, who evidently
thought I had gone demented. " It's only half -past
SIX.
" Well, put my things ready. I'm going to get
up.'
"Yes, sir!"
He withdrew, half-closed the door, then opened
it again and returned.
"Excuse me, sir," he said, "but are you unwell? "
At any other time this remark, which was cer-
tainly harmless enough, would have been received
by me with a laugh and an assurance that I was in
14 FATHER ANTHONY
my normal condition; but on that morning I must
certainly have been imstrung, for the man's innocent
question irritated me beyond measure.
" Idiot ! " I exclaimed, " can't one order one's bath
at six o'clock in the morning without being thought
either a madman or an invalid? There, put out
my things, and order my breakfast for half-past
eight!"
My bathroom adjoined my bedroom. I could
hear Ferguson busily preparing my tub for me. In
a very short time he returned to say that all was
ready, then he descended to the kitchen, doubtless
to communicate to his wife, my one female servant,
the exceedingly crusty condition of their master that
morning.
After my bath my unstrung nerves were braced
up, and my normal condition seemed in a measure
restored to me. When I descended, followed close-
ly by an old spaniel which always kept watch at jny
bedroom door, the discomfort of my nightmare
seemed to be fading away.
It is not always a cheerful thing to walk in the
streets of London at an early hour in the morning.
On this occasion the air was fresh enough, but the
sky looked grey and lowering and scarcely any one
seemed astir. As I left my doorstep, and strode up
towards Eegent's Park, we, myself and the dog,
seemed to be monarchs of all we surveyed. Only
here and there was a little sign of life. Eeaching
FATHBR ANTHONY 15
the park I went northwards, walked round the
.Drive, then down Portland Place towards home.
At 8.30, precisely, my breakfast was on the table
and I was eating it with an appetite. At ten I
started on my romids to see the patients whose
aihnents managed to keep me in bread and butter.
I was not a very busy man — what doctor at thirty
is? — but I managed, by a little hospital work, to
fill up my days with not altogether unremunerative
professional labour. My evenings were spent in
study, and latterly, indeed, I had been reading very
hard.
When the day's work was done, and I found my-
self in my study busily pondering over certain new
theories and experiments which were to enlighten
the world and make my fortune, I had forgotten the
experience of the previous night. At midnight I
went to bed, feeling particularly tired and in want
of- rest. The moment my senses were dulled by
slumber, or so it seemed to me, my precious night-
mare came again ! Again I stood upon the river's
bank, again I saw the turbulent waters sucking
down that helpless form, again I saw the large dark
eyes fixed imploringly upon mine, the white hands
piteously extended towards me, and again I heard
that voice appealing to me for help. This time the
cry was so shrill and wild, that I, crying out in
answer to it, sprang up in bed.
I stared about me like one demented.
16 FATHER ANTHONY
" What the deuce is the matter with me ? * I ex-
claimed.
The gas was burning brightly, and Ferguson, par-
tially dressed, and looking by no means as calm as
usual, stood by my bedside.
"Beg pardon, sir," said he, somewhat astonished
at my extraordinary behaviour, "but the door was
unlocked, and you seemed to be sleeping so sound,
I thought I'd better come in. Mrs. Lennox is
much worse, and they've sent a hansom cab and
want you to go round."
"All right," I replied, "I'll be down in five min-
utes."
I was really glad of an excuse to leave my bed.
On descending to the surgery I found that Ferguson
had lit up the gas and was ready to accompany me,
as he frequently did to cases of the kind.
"I shan't want you," I said, buttoning up my
coat.
He seemed rather glad; at any rate, I thought he
looked relieved as he opened the door, saw me to
the cab, and watched me drive away.
Night was about to turn into morning, but it was
still quite dark save for the light of the street lamps.
A cold wind blew, whistling cheerlessly around the
cab as it rattled along. Speeding thus through the
silent streets I forgot, or partially forgot, my past
discomfort. The case which had called me from
my bed was a particularly important one. I had
FATHER ANTHONY 17
perfonned a very difficult operation, the success of
which would mean much to me. For the time be-
ing, therefore, anxiety for my patient obliterated
the memory of that agonised face which had ap-
pealed to me in my sleep. With an effort I shook
oS the nervousness which had taken possession of
me, and turned heart and soul to my work, which,
indeed, needed all my wits and all my skill. The
patient lay in a very critical condition, and it was
only by a miracle that I saved her life. For hours
I remained beside her. At seven o'clock she was
sleeping tranquilly, and I knew that all danger was
past.
Ketuming home, I began my work for the day.
At eleven o'clock that night I felt as tired as if I
had felled half a forest, and I went to bed anticipat-
ing peaceful slumber. For many hours I must have
slept soundly, far too soundly for any visions to
trouble my overwrought brain, but as sleep restored
strength to my wearied frame the blankness of an-
nihilation passed away, and my Vision returned.
It was the third time it had come to me, and all its
phenomena seemed more terrible in their distinctness
than they had ever been before. The cry was more
piercing, the look of anguish on the woman's face
more intense; and this time I saw another face,
that of a man, turned towards her from the water,
while a hand was clutching her by the hair as if to
drag her down.
18 FATHER ANTHONY
"This will never do," I said to myself, as having
sprung from my bed I stood panting and trembling
in the middle of the room. " It's quite evident my
nervous system is out of order, and I must adopt
the only means of cure/
I rang for Ferguson and asked for some telegraph
forms. When he brought them I wrote out a tele-
gram:—
"To Dr. Ambrose, New Cross, —
** Come to meat once, if possible. Important.
"Chables Sdthebland."
The telegram was sent, and with good efifect.
Just as I was sitting down to breakfast Jack Am-
brose, my old college chum, entered the room.
"Well, what's the matter?" he asked, as he fell
to upon the breakfast. " Have you discovered the
philosopher's stone, or become a convert to Bastian's
theory of spontaneous generation ? I suppose some-
thing more than ordinary made you send that tele-
gram ? In any case can I be useful ? "
I nodded.
" You can, and I am going to tell you how. But
first, how do you think I'm looking ? "
"Not quite up to your usual form," returned Jack.
" I am afraid you've been relapsing into midwifery
and general practice ! "
"Well, not exactly, but for one reason and an-
other my nerves are out of order — liver wrong — I
FATHBR ANTHONY 19
can't sleep — I want a change^ and I'm going to take
a holiday ! "
"I see, and you want me to go with you," said
Jack ; " all right, — my assistant can look after my
one paying patient."
"Just so," I answered with a laugh. "But I
want your wisdom here, not your company away
from home. Somebody must look after my practice
during my absence, and you're the very man."
Jack's face brightened. Here was a chance he
had never dared to hope for. Though we had been
college chums, though we had walked the hospitals
together, and had together passed our final exams.,
Fortune had certainly not distributed her gifts to
us equally. Practice had come liberally my way,
while poor Ambrose had to sit day after day in his
consulting-room, stare blankly out of the window
and wonder when those mystical consulting fees
were likely to pour into his rapidly emptying
pockets. The chance thus oflFered him was therefore
promptly accepted ; in half an hour we had arranged
matters to our mutual satisfaction; and that same
evening I stood upon the platform at Euston Square
Station, waiting for the Irish mail.
I had chosen Ireland as my destination, and for
two reasons. Firstly, because, having spent a fort-
night there during one of my college vacations, I
had pleasant recollections of both the country and
the people ; and, secondly, because I knew the out-
20 FATHER ANTHONY
lay in cash would be moderate enough to suit my
not over-filled purse. At eight o'clock, therefore,
when the Irish train steamed out of Euston, I was
one of her passengers, seated in a comer of a first-
class compartment, cosily wrapped up in a thick
ulster, with a couple of travelling bags, my sole
impedimenta, in the rack above my head.
It was a capital journey. Before I had half
waded through the " shilling dreadful " which I had
purchased at the London bookstall the train reached
Holyhead, and I and my bags were transported to
the steamer. Most of my fellow-passengers retired
below, but I, still restless and out of sorts, remained
above, and paced the deck until the ship steamed
into Kingston Harbour.
CHAPTER II
Although this narrative will be chiefly concerned
with events in which I had little more than a spec-
tator's interest, it may be as well to explain before
proceeding farther that I am neither a superstitious
man nor one subject to nervous fancies. My medi-
cal training and professional experience had made
me very sceptical on all matters outside the explana-
tion of science. I knew very well, therefore, that
the discomfort I had experienced meant simply
brain-fag and an irritated nervous system. I did
not believe then — I do not believe now — that either
my recurrent nightmare or the strange coincidence
which followed it, and which I shall describe in due
course, was due to any supernatural influence, or
solicitation. The facts, however, are the facts, and I
shall conscientiously put them down.
On reaching Dublin I found I had a couple of
hours to dispose of, so I drove to an hotel, took a
bath, and had some breakfast; after which, feeling
tolerably fresh, I made for the station and was just
in time to catch the train to Ballina. It was a slow
train, containing only a small number of passengers,
and I had little difiiculty in securing a first-class
22 FATHER ANTHONY
compartment to myself. For this small mercy I felt
unfeignedly thankful, since now that the freshness
produced by my tub had worn off, I knew that
to struggle longer against sleep was impossible.
Selecting my carriage, therefore, I deposited my
baggage in the rack, assumed my travelling cap and
ulster, and, settling myself in a comer, gave myself
up to a drowsiness which was pleasantly numbing
every nerve.
I must have slept for some time, when the heavi-
ness of my slumber passed away, and I became dimly
conscious, though I did not open my eyes. I lis-
tened to the rumbling of the train as it crawled
slowly along; then I was attracted by another
sound, like the sob of a human voice, which seemed
to be close at hand. I opened my eyes, and met
the gaze of two large tearful orbs which were fixed
wistfully upon mine. I started up with an involun-
tary cry ! A lady dressed in deep black sat opposite
me, and shrinking away nervously as I awoke,
averted her face, drew down her veil, and gazed
silently from the carriage window.
"I — I beg your pardon," I stammered, "I am
afraid I startled you, but I thought I was alone."
The stranger made no reply, while I resumed pos-
session of my seat and quietly watched my compan-
ion. She was clothed in deep mourning, and judg-
ing from the outline of her figure, as well as the
glimpse 1 had had of her face, I knew she must be
"I STAKTRD UP WITH AN INVOLUHTAKV CRYI"
^«p:
THE HEW YORi
PUSUC UBRARY
HLDEN FOIINDATIONS
FATHER ANTHONY 23
young. While watching her thus I made one or
two attempts at conversation, but she still main-
tained a rigid silence. I had still the prospect of
two hours' travelling before me, and the thought of
beguiling a part of that two hours by pleasant con-
versation with a fair neighbour was too enticing to
be resisted. I made another effort to break through
her reserve by handing her the daily paper. To my
amazement she put up her hand as if to ward off a
blow.
" I do not wish to see it ! " she said. " Please take
it away ! "
Feeling rather foolish I subsided again into my
comer, and holding the paper up before my eyes be-
gan to look over its contents. As I sat thus, half-
vacantly regarding the sheet before me, my atten-
tion was arrested by an article headed, "The Mylrea
Murder Case — Latest Particulars." I had read the
first few lines of the article when a movement from
my companion again arrested my attention. She
sat in the same place, but she had lifted her veil,
and again I saw her face. It was young and singu-
larly beautiful — but that was not all — it was famil-
iar to me, though when and where I had seen it I
could not recall. The rounded cheeks were white
as death, the large dark eyes, gazing abstractedly
before her, were filled with tears.
That my companion was in great trouble was very
clear, and my heart at once went out towards her.
24 FATHER ANTHONY
I left my seat and took the one opposite her. I was
about to speak, when she once more turned her eyes
full upon me, and we gazed at each other in silence.
Then all at once it flashed upon me that she bore a
startling resemblance to the vision which had come
to me three times in sleep, and which in simple
truth had sent me wandering from my London
home !
Although, as I have explained, I am by tempera-
ment neither nervous nor superstitious, I am free to
confess that I was startled by the real or fancied re-
semblance; it seemed, to use our homely Scotch
expression, "uncanny.** I suppose my expression
must have betrayed some feeling of astonishment
and curiosity, for my companion also seemed sur-
prised and slightly alarmed.
"Pardon me,** I said, "but have we ever met be-
fore? Your face seems familiar to me, and yet I
cannot recall when and where I may have seen it.**
She hesitated for a moment, and then replied in a
low, clear voice, with just the faintest suspicion of
the educated Irish accent, which is musical above
all others : — «
"No, sir, I do not know you, and I don't think
we have ever met ** ; and so saying she turned her
face away and seemed wishful to put an end to the
conversation.
But I persisted.
"I am afraid you are in trouble? "
FATHER ANTHONY 25
Her face flushed, and she glanced at me almost
angrily, but this time she did not reply. I stam-
mered another apology, and then, seeing the hope-
lessness of all attempts at conversation, turned again
to my study of the daily paper.
But the letters danced before my eyes, and my
thoughts went back to that nightmare in Wigmore
Street! Either I was non compos mentis, or here,
sitting before me in the flesh, was the very woman
of my dream; and to strengthen then the coinci-
dence, she too, like her visionary prototype, was in
dire distress. The white tearful face, the black
crape dress, every look and gesture, betokened some
great recent sorrow.
From time to time I stole a glance at her. She
could not have been more than eighteen or nineteen
years of age, and her beauty was that of refinement
and gentle breeding; the eyebrows dark and finely
pencilled, the mouth sweet and childlike yet full of
gentle determination, the eyes between brown and
grey, with those bright agate hues which are pecul-
iar to the Irish race. And the form, just develop-
ing into womanhood, was worthy of the face — slight
and graceful — from the finely arched foot to the
delicate finger-tips.
I was more than interested — I was fascinated —
but I could only look and wonder.
CHAPTEE III
It was afternoon, and the train was still rumbling
along westward towards the wilds of Mayo and the
Atlantic Ocean. Athlone was left behind us, and
with every mile we traversed the landscape sur-
rounding us grew drearier; bleak barren hills,
stretches of moorland, and shallow reed-sown loughs
and meres, replacing the green wooded prospects of
the earlier part of the journey. Despite my nervous
curiosity I must, I suppose, have dozed oflf again, for
I suddenly became aware that the train was slowing
into a solitary railway station, and that my compan-
ion had risen from her seat and was gathering to-
gether her wraps, umbrella, and sundry small pack-
ages which lay on the seat beside her.
The train stopped at the platform, and before I
could offer her any assistance the lady had opened
the carriage door and was in the act of alighting.
A rough-looking fellow dressed as a groom ap-
proached and saluted her by touching his hat. She
said something to him in a low voice, handed over
to him her impedimenta, and walked rapidly away.
I watched her until she disappeared, then scarcely
knowing what I was about, but urged by an irresist-
FATHER ANTHONY 27
ible influence not to lose sight of her, I seized my
own belongings and jumped out on to the platform.
A moment's pause, a banging of carriage doors, a
whistle from the engine, and away went the train.
Without pausing to look for a porter, I made my
way along the platform, delivered up my ticket, and
emerged from the station just in time to see my
mysterious unknown drive away in a well-appointed
jaunting-car drawn by a pair of bays. She did not
appear to see me ; her eyes were fixed on vacancy,
or on what was very much the same — the distant
rainy prospect.
Feeling somewhat foolish I looked around me, and
found myseK in a sort of Tamor in the wilderness — a
few wretched houses with one or two forlorn shops,
and on every side great stretches of moorland and
gleams of water; but standing in the road there
was a ramshackle one-horse car, in the custody of a
ragged driver who appeared to be fast asleep. I
hailed the latter, threw my bags and rugs on to the
vehicle, and jumped up.
"Now then, ofif you go — quick! " I cried.
"Where to, yer honour? " said the man, who had
every reason to regard me as a lunatic.
"Where to? How the deuce do I know? Fol-
low that lady ! "
"Sure, I can't follow a shadow, sor! Who is it
that you're afther, entirely ? "
"Why, the lady, to be sure ! The lady who drove
28 FATHER ANTHONY
away just now on the jaunting-car. Keep her well
in sight, and when we come to the end of our jour-
ney, I'll give you a sovereign over your fare."
This time the trick was done ! Quick as light-
ning the driver was in his seat, one wild whoop and
a vigorous crack of the whip sent the weedy-looking
animal off at a gallop — indeed, so vigorously did we
plimge into space that for several minutes I could
think of nothing but how to keep my seat. The
road was a rough one and full of heavy ruts, and as
the car went quickly over them it bounded about
like an india-rubber ball, making my bag execute a
kind of war-dance, and nearly making me turn a
Catherine-wheel and land head downwards in the
mud. I managed, however, to retain my seat, and
presently, when the horse slackened its speed a little
and the car went more smoothly, I turned to look
about me.
My first glance was forward.
The jaunting-car was in signt, proceeding at a
quick but measured pace, with its occupant, the
young lady in black, seated on the left side of it.
Satisfied that my quarry was in view, I looked back
and saw the village at which I had alighted — a mere
handful of miserable mud-huts lying in a hollow,
and having for a background the still more miser-
able-looking station.
I turned to the driver.
" What do you call that place ? " I asked.
FATHER ANTHONY 29
"Is it the village, yer honour? "
"Yes, the village."
"Bally more, sor; but it's queer that ye didn't
know it, since ye came to it in the train."
"Do you know that lady?" I asked, indicating
with a nod the occupant of the car ahead of us.
" Sure and I do, sor ! "
"Well, what is her name? "
"She's Miss Eileen Craig, of Craig Castle."
He looked at me curiously, as if he had doubts as
to my sanity, and I, feeling that I was gaining little
by questioning him, relapsed into silence.
" Miss Eileen Craig, of Craig Castle ! " The name
sounded romantic, and my curiosity was piqued still
more. Her name was Eileen, she lived in a castle,
and she was unmarried! The last fact, I should
explain, did not interest me on sentimental grounds
— I had not, that is to say, fallen in love at first
sight; but as a rule married ladies did not appeal to
the little enthusiasm my profession had left in me.
I was longing, however, for an adventure, and all
my recent experience, from my dream onward,
seemed to suggest that an adventure might be forth-
coming.
How I should have laughed in derision only a few
days previously had any one prophesied that I, a
staid professional man of mature years, would short-
ly be pursuing a will-o'-the-wisp through the bogs
of the Emerald Isle ! Indeed I could not help smil-
30 FATHER ANTHONY
ing now at my own folly. I had yielded to a sud-
den impulse without a moment's thought whither it
would lead me ; and there I was, perched on a ram-
shackle car, and proceeding — Heaven only knew
whither !
As to my driver, he showed no curiosity whatever
as to either my destination or my state of mind.
Now whistling, now crooning to himself the words
of some old song, he urged his sorry steed along in
pursuit of the other car. The country we traversed
was flat and uninteresting, with scarcely a sign of
human habitation. Here and there lean cattle
grazed on dismal stretches of meadow, beyond which
lay reaches of bleak and barren moorland, clumps of
stunted trees and sheets of sullen water. The pros-
pect was monotonous, to say the least of it, and
before we had gone half a dozen miles I began to
long for a little variety.
Presently I was reminded by certain inward crav-
ings that many hours must have passed since I had
tasted food. I looked at my watch; it was half-
past four; the best part of the day had gone, in a
very short space of time evening would be upon me,
and here was I, driving through an unknown and
desolate country into desolate space. And why was
I doing it? Simply because a face, resembling that
of the lady I had met in the train, had appeared to
me in a dream.
Having by this time cooled down, and feeling
FATHER ANTHONY 31
utterly depressed by the prospect around me and the
hunger within, I began to curse my folly in allowing
a miserable superstition to lead me by the nose and
make a goose of me. I called to the driver, bent on
ordering him to turn at once and drive back to the
place whence I had come ; before I had succeeded
in arresting his attention I changed my mind.
Why, I asked myself, should I return ? For what
purpose had I left my home save in order to find
distraction and excitement, and should I not find
these in all probability as easily in the neighbour-
hood I was traversing as at Ballina, whither I had
been bound ? I answered these questions by attack-
ing my sandwiches and emptying my flask.
The mountain air had sharpened my appetite. I
ate my sandwiches and drank my whisky with a
relish. Just as the repast was over the car came
to a full stop.
I looked up, glanced forward, and found that the
vehicle ahead of us had stopped also, nay, more, that
the lady had descended and was standing on the
roadside. The spot was utterly lonely; far as eye
could see there was neither habitation nor sign of
life.
What was my astonishment, the next moment, to
see the mysterious lady sink upon her knees in an
attitude of prayer, and cover her face with her hands.
My driver, who was quietly regarding her, reverent-
ly took oflf his hat.
32 FATHER ANTHONY
" What is the matter VI whispered. " I believe
she is actually praying."
" Indeed she is, sor. The poor young mistress ! *
"But what does she mean? Why is she kneeling
there ? "
"Wheest, spake low!** answered the man. "It
was there they found her father — rest his soul — five
weeks ago, and by the same token they built up the
cairn of stones yonder to mark where he fell."
"But how had it happened?" I demanded; "an
accident?"
"No, yer honour; sure it was no accident, for he
was kilt and murdered, bad luck to him that done
it!"
"Murdered? That young lady's father, you
say?"
" Sure enough, and a fine, bold, free-spoken gintle-
man he was, with a kind heart and an open hand !
Sure I remember the night well enough, for I was
driving from Kilsyth fair meself with this very
baste, and I came upon the crowd, and when I
leapt from the car I saw the master lying dead. It
was a black night, your honour, but the boys had lit
up torches of bog wood, and they flared over the
master's face ! Well, nobody knowed rightly what
to do wid him, when Dr. Mulligan came driving up.
As soon as he heard what was the matter he cleared
the crowd and laid a-hold of the master. ' Sure
enough, boys, he's dead,' said bej ' some villain has
FATHER ANTHONY 33
shot him through the heart. We'll have to go to
the Castle and take the black news to Miss Eileen/
Well, they up wi' the body, and placed it on the
doctor's car, and it was driven to the Castle, and
since that day the poor lady has been heart-broken,
as you see her now."
Thoroughly stirred and interested, I was about to
ask for more particulars when the lady, sobbing vio-
lently, rose to her feet and remounted the car, on
which her servant sat bareheaded. She had not
once glanced in my direction, but seemed to be
oblivious to everything but her own great sorrow.
The car drove on rapidly, and at a signal from
me my driver followed. From that moment forward
further conversation was difl&cult; the road became
rougher than ever, night was rapidly closing in, and
the air was thick with a mist more penetrating even
than a heavy downpour of rain. Wrapping myself
in my mackintosh and pulling my travelling cap
over my ears, I looked around, trying in vain to
penetrate the darkness which gradually enveloped us
like a cloud. Nothing was visible — even the pres-
ence of the car ahead of us was soon only indicated
by the rattling of the wheels and the crack of the
driver's whip.
Thus we proceeded for some distance, while the
road every moment became wilder and more uneven
and the darkness denser all around. Full of amaze-
ment and pity I sat thinking over the episode of the
3
34 FATHER ANTHONY
murder, when the car came suddenly to a full stop,
and the driver turned to me.
"Here we are, yer honour," said he.
"Where are we? " I asked.
"Just at Mylrea, sor. Do you see them lights,
shining through the darkness there? Them's the
windows of Craig Castle, and that noise that ye hear
is the say that comes almost till the doors."
"Does Miss Craig live there?"
"Indeed she does, sor. All alone now the mas-
ter's dead, except for the boys and girls that's along
wid her."
"Do you know a good inn where we could put up
for the night ? "
"An inn, is it? Sure there's no inn in Mylrea,
sor. Divil a place of that kind will ye find nearer
than Kilsyth, and that's ten miles behind us."
" Then what are we to do ? "
"Shall I drive yer honour back? "
"No, I think not," was my reply. "Is there no
place of any kind where I could put up for the
night?"
"No, sor; sure now, I thought it was to the Cas-
tle itself that yer honour was going, and that I could
get bite and sup there for the poor baste till mom-
mg!
Thus pressed, I was bound to confess that I knew
as little of Craig Castle as I did of its mistress, and
that under no pretext whatever could I present my-
FATHER ANTHONY 36
self at its door and ask for shelter. There seemed
nothing for it but to retrace our way, but the horse
was a poor, half -starved animal, like its master, and
sorely in need of rest.
"There's only one way out of it, yer honour," said
the driver at last. "We'll drive up to the Castle
and put the poor baste in the stables there for an
hour, and sure the boys will give him a feed of com
and a mouthful of hay."
" But the lady— Miss Craig ? "
"Sure it's not Miss Eileen that would ever refuse
shelter to a man or baste. It's open house the mas-
ter used to keep when he was alive."
"That may be," I said; "but I shall certainly not
intrude upon her. Drive to the stables if you like
— I'll wait on the car till your horse has rested and
been fed, and then we'll return to Bally more."
"All right, yer honour," replied the man; and
once more we began to move through the darkness.
We went very slowly, and it seemed to me that
we were descending a steep hill. In a few minutes,
however, we saw lights before us, and heard a mur-
mur of voices. The driver jimiped down, and lead-
ing the horse through an iron gate, paused at a
door, on which he rapped sharply with the butt-end
of his whip. The door opened, and a young ser-
vant-girl stood on the threshold, holding in her
hand a lighted candle. Before the driver could say
a word the girl gave a cry of recognition.
36 FATHER ANTHONY
"Is it yerself, Andy Blake?" she exclaimed.
"Oh, praise be to the Lord for sending ye here this
night ! Will ye mount upon the mare's back and
bring Dr. Mulligan here, for sure the yoimg mistress
. is dying ? "
"What's that?** cried the astonished Andy.
"Dying, is it?"
"Is it deaf that ye are or drunk?" replied the
giri. "Didn't I say she was dying? And never a
doctor at hand to save her, the darling ! Sure ye
know well enough where to find Dr. Mulligan — so
don't come back without him."
I listened with amazement, not immixed with
satisfaction. I saw my chance, and took it. In a
moment I was off the car, I had pushed the driver
aside, I had taken his place.
"If the lady is ill," I said, "perhaps I can be of
some use ? I am a doctor, and shall be pleased to
do what I can."
I had placed the magic key in the lock and
turned it — without a word the girl seized my arm
•and led me into the Castle.
CHAPTER IV
In a moment I passed from darkness into a blaze of
light, and foimd myself in a great stone-paved
kitchen. A turf fire blazed on the open hearth, and
roimd the fire was gathered a motley group of human
beings — old men and women, boys, girls and ragged
children. As I passed through their midst they ut-
tered a sympathetic moan ; but I had only time to
cast a glance at them before I was hurried along a
narrow passage leading to the front part of the
house.
''You seem to have company? " I said, in my su-
preme ignorance of Irish manners and customs.
"Sure, they're only a few of the boys and girls,"
replied my guide, "gathered in from the village to
hear the news Miss Eileen was bringing home."
As she spoke she guided me into a wide lobby,
and thence, by a short flight of stairs, into a large,
old-fashioned sitting-room ; and there, stretched in-
sensible on a couch, I saw the young mistress of the
mansion.
Eelieved now of her hat and cloak, and with her
hair hanging loosely about her shoulders, she lay as
she had evidently fallen, and close to her, support-
38 FATHER ANTHONY
ing her gently, stood an elderly, grey -haired woman
who was crying and moaning pitifully. However,
one glance at the recumbent figure of the girl was
enough to show me that she had merely fainted.
"Loosen her dress and corsets," I said to the elder-
ly female, who was addressed as Bridget, "and give
her as much air as possible, while I fetch my
bag."
Hurrying out to the car I soon found my luggage,
took from it a small medicine chest, my invariable
travelling companion, and returned to the room.
As I passed through the kitchen and back again I
was greeted with sympathetic murmurs.
Meantime my instructions had been carried out.
My patient was wrapped in a loose gown. I ad-
ministered the usual restoratives, and in a few min-
utes the marble-like cheeks were sufifused with faint
colour, the eyelids quivered, then opened, and the
eyes rested upon me. As they did so a curious
feeling of faintness crept over me — for ^ain I
seemed to see, looking into mine, the eyes I had
seen in my dream, fidl of the same wild, wistful
look which had haunted me and driven me from my
home ! With an eflfort I shook off the sense of su-
perstitious discomfort, and said : —
"Excuse me for being here, but I was passing by
the Castle when I heard that you had been taken
ill. I am a doctor, and only too glad to be at your
service."
mM
1^^
** }
PShi
V ifll^'
V^^f^
lflll
M3-" ^^ ^^Cr
la...... c:...//
E GLANCE AT THE KECUMBENT F
£THE W£W lOfA
:
A8TOR, LiiNOl
FATHER ANTHONY 39
With a sigh she turned her eyes away and mur-
mured: "Thank you, sir," in a voice so infinitely
pathetic that it touched me to the very heart.
Then placing her hand on the arm of the woman
who bent over her she continued: —
• "I think I shall be better in bed, Bridget," while
to me she said: "You must excuse me, sir, but I
have passed a terrible day. I thank you for what
you have done for me, and if you are remaining in
Mylrea I hope y^pu-^will ttceept the hospitality of
Craig Castle!" I '';'* /'•' ';. i
Thanking her as well* as H could I Extended my
hand, and frankly and unhesitatingly she placed
hers in it — a frail little hand,, white '*as snow and
delicate as down. As my fingers closed over it I
foimd that it was icy cold.
Instinctively my fingers sought the delicate wrist,
and rested on the pulse.
"Have you a medical man in the village?" I
asked.
She shook her head.
"We have Dr. Mulligan, but he is ten miles
away ! " Then suddenly a wild despairing look
came into her eyes, and she cried as if in terror:
"Do you think that I am going to be ill? "
"I hope not," I returned. "Indeed, I am sure
not, if proper care is taken ; but your nervous con-
dition is such as to induce prostration and fever,
and you want some little medical care."
40 FATHER ANTHONY
"Ah, do not say that," she cried; "I must not be
ill. I cannot! There is another human life de-
pending upon mine! I have blood enough upon
my hands ! I do not wish for more."
"Miss Eileen, acushla!" interrupted Bridget;
"don't talk like that. You wid blood upon ye!
You that's as innocent as the babe unborn ! The
doctor's right, mavoumeen ; 'tis the fever that's on
ye or ye wouldn't talk so."
"It is Twt the fever," said the girl, whose excite-
ment was increasing, and whose eyes were now
streaming with tears; "it's all this trouble which is
just breaking my heart! Oh, Bridget, if you had
seen him to-day, as I did, looking so pale and worn,
the shadow of what he used to be. He says he is
innocent, and sure I know it, and yet they will con-
demn him to his death ! As if it were not enough
that I should lose my father, but they must lay the
guilt at his door, and so break my heart ! "
In her excitement she had almost forgotten my
presence. For a minute or so I allowed her to cling
to the woman, talking and sobbing hysterically; but
when the violence of her grief had somewhat abated,
I oflfered her a draught, which I had quietly mixed,
and asked her to drink it. She did so at once,
saying as she returned the empty glass : —
"You are not an Irishman, sir? "
"No, I am English. I have come to seek health
and recreation in Ireland. For the present, at any
FATHER ANTHONY 41
rate, my time is entirely my own, so if I can be of
any service to you pray command me."
"You are very kind," she replied gently, and as
she spoke her eyes travelled thoughtfully over my
face. Whether or not she recognised me I cannot
tell, but I fancied at the time that she did, and was
wondering whether my attentions were quite disin-
terested.
"At all events," I added, "since you have so
kindly offered to let me remain for the night I will
gladly do so, but pray put yourself to no inconve-
nience on my account. Any sort of shakedown will
be good enough for me, and I will see you again
before I continue my journey in the morning."
Again she thanked me, and rising from the sofa,
quietly bade me "good night." As the door closed
upon her and I was left alone to reflect over what
had taken place, I felt glad that I should be enabled
to see her once again. Could it be possible, I asked
myself, that some more than human force had led
me to Craig Castle, in order that I might respond to
the cry for help which had come to me in my
sleep ?
Although the mistress of the house had retired,
leaving me to my own device, I soon found that
she had attended to my comfort in a spirit of true
Irish hospitality. The girl who had brought me
into the house speedily reappeared, and requesting
me to follow her once more, led me upstairs to a
42 FATHER ANTHONY
clean little bedroom, and thither a few minutes later
climbed the car driver with my travelling bag. He
informed me with evident satisfaction that he also
was comfortably looked after, and that the "poor
baste" was snug in the stables.
When I had washed myself and arranged my
things for the night the girl knocked at my door and
informed me that supper was waiting for me down
below; so down I went to the sitting-room where I
had seen my hostess, and there I found a bright fire
burning on the hearth, and the table spread with a
feast just fit for a tired traveller, — tea, new milk,
home-made bread, new-laid eggs, and broiled slices
of salmon fresh run from the sea. I was just
about to fall to, when Bridget entered the chamber.
"My mistress's compliments," she said, "and
maybe you would prefer wine ? There is claret in
the house, and burgundy that the master (rest his
soul) kept for his own drinking."
I thanked her and told her that I infinitely pre-
ferred the tea, and then asked after my patient.
" She is all right now ? " I inquired.
"She is better, sir," replied the woman, "but I'm
thinking she'll never be all right again in this
world." And then, before I could protest, she
quietly left the room.
During my repast the waiting wench returned
once or twice, and I tried in vain to beguile her
into conversation, and so satisfy my growing curi-
FATHER ANTHONY 43
osity. She only repKed to me in monosyllables,
and so afforded me no information whatever.
However, there I was, comfortably fed and housed ;
and to crown my felicities, the girl presently
brought in a bottle of Jameson's whisky and the
usual materials for making hot punch! I mixed
myself a stiff tumbler, and found it so pleasant to
the taste that I followed it with another; finally, in
the most pleasant frame of mind possible, I betook
myself to bed and slept like a top till morning.
No nightmare troubled me that night — not even
the glimpse of a dream ! When I awoke it was
broad day — nine o'clock, I found, on looking at my
watch. I sprang out of bed, drew up the window-
blind, and looked out. The sun was shining bright-
ly, and before me, not a hundred yards away, were
silver sands and the tranquil waters of the Sea.
Half an hour later I was downstairs and out of
doors, standing on the seashore and looking at the
Castle.
Strictly speaking, it was not a castle at all. At
one time or another no doubt an edifice answering
to the name had stood there, but few traces of the
original building now remained, and the dwelling-
house was a modem one of stone, with no preten-
sions to architectural beauty. Such as it was, how-
ever, it dominated the scene, looking almost due
west over a great arm of the Atlantic Ocean. In-
land stretched lonely moors and heather hills, the
44 FATHER ANTHONY
latter scarcely attaining the dignity of mountains,
and down from the hills flowed, with many a leap
and fall, a small river, plunging into the sea within
a stone's throw to the left of the soi-disant Castle.
Eeturning thither, I found a royal breakfast await-
ing me, and I had scarcely done it justice when my
hostess appeared and greeted me with a kindly
smile.
Thanks to the draught which I had given her, she
had passed the night, she told me, in quiet slumber.
Though she still looked pale and sad, that weird,
haunted expression which I had noticed at our first
interview had left her eyes. With childlike frank-
ness she extended her hand to me, and, smiling
faintly, expressed a hope that the strange occur-
rences of the night before had not made me feel
that I had fallen among "savages"; that she had
dreaded meeting me that morning, lest in opening
my lips I should want to say "good-bye."
"I don't know how it is, sir," she added, "but
during the few hours that you have been in this
house a feeling of restfulness has come over me that
I have not known since my great trouble. Sure I
think God has sent you to help me in this terrible
time ! Forgive me if I seem foolish, but I feel like
a woman who was drowning in the sea, and who
had called out to some one to save her by reaching
out a helping hand."
As she spoke a new feeling of wonder took pos-
FATHER ANTHONY 45
session of me, for I seemed to hear the voice that I
had heard in far-oflf London. I stood speechless,
gazing at her tearful face and outstretched arms,
when the appearance of Bridget in the room re-
minded me that I was not dreaming, and that my
companion was a living woman.
"There's Andy Blake, yer honour," said Bridget,
"asking what time yer'll he ready for the car."
Instead of answering her I turned to Miss
Craig.
" I have not yet thanked you for your hospitality,"
I said. " But for you I shoidd have been last night
both homeless and supperless. While thanking you
now, however, I am about to trespass upon your
kindness still further. Now that I am at Mylrea I
feel inclined to remain at least for a little time. If
you will allow me, I will leave my luggage here
while I go and interview the car driver and take a
stroll through the neighbourhood to see if I can find
some habitable rooms."
Her reply was characteristic. She begged me to
remain in her house — the best rooms, she said,
would be at my disposal, and Bridget would see
that I wanted for nothing.
"You are too kind," I replied, "but I am not. go-
ing to take advantage of your goodness. I am quite
a stranger and have no right to trespass on your
hospitality."
"But I wish you to remain," she said.
46 FATHER ANTHONY
" And so I will, if I can find quarters. Eandly
leave that to me — I am used to roughing it, and
besides I want to see as much as I can of the Irish
people."
Seeing that I was determined, she did not persist.
I think, indeed, she was a little relieved to find that
I would not remain in the house, where my constant
presence might have been irksome. To tell the
truth, my resolution was dictated by a truly Eng-
lish regard for what are known as les convenances.
I was thinking, indeed, of what the world might say
if I, a stranger and a bachelor, were to remain as a
guest in the house of a young girl without kinsmen
and relations. I was not aware at that time that a
young maiden in the wilds of Ireland is looked
upon as her own protector, and is free to set conven-
tion at defiance.
"I am going to look after you, however," I said
smiling, " and to be, if you'll permit me, your physi-
cian in ordinary."
So saying, I went off to interview Andy Blake,
and to look for a lodging in Mylrea.
Andy was waiting for me, looking brisk and live-
ly after a sound night's rest and a comfortable break-
fast. My conversation with him, however, was un-
satisfactory enough. He assured me that though
the village contained a number of houses there was
not one of them which contained a room which
would be fit to become even a temporary lodging
FATHER ANTHONY 47
for a "dacent gintJeman" like myself. Under ordi-
nary circumstances I might have been tempted to
take his word; but having made up my mind to find
quarters, I sallied forth under his guidance to in-
spect the village with my own eyes.
I found that what he had said was true in the
main. Cabin after cabin was entered and left in
hot haste. " They might be fit to shelter cattle and
pigs," I thought; "they were certainly not fit to
harbour human beings, either * dacent ' or other-
wise." At length, seeing that nothing could shake
my determination to remain, Andy suggested that
we should try the "Widdy Macrae," and to the
« Widdy Macrae " we accordingly went.
The cottage occupied by the said widow was situ-
ated on the outskirts of the village, and close to the
seashore. To all outward appearance it was like
all the others, a little low-roofed hovel scarcely bet-
ter than an English bam, yet the moment I entered
the door I took off my hat to the Widow Macrae !
Here, imder her presiding care, cleanliness and order
leigned supreme, and though the means of comfort
at the widow's command were not great, they were
utilised to the full. True, the floor of the kitchen
was only of earth, but the earth was dry and clean,
cleaner than many a boarded kitchen, the plates on
the wooden dresser shone brightly, the open hearth
was clean swept, and there was a muslin curtain to
the window.
48 FATHER ANTHONY
When informed of my wants, the widow, a
buxom, dark-eyed, good-looking woman of forty, the
relict of a sergeant of Irish Constabulary, conducted
me into an inner room which, through tiny enough,
was clean as a new pin. From the linen on the
recess bed to the white curtains round the window,
everything was bright and cheerful; there was a
small circular mahogany table, an old arm-chair,
writing materials, and to crown all, a bunch of
autumn flowers and heather in a white jug on the
window-sill.
"The very thing, ** I said to myself; "an oasis in
a desert of mud and dirt ! "
As I spoke my eyes fell on a small volume boimd
in dark leather and lying near the bunch of flowers.
I took it up, opened it, and found it was a volume
of Irish songs.
"It belongs to Father Anthony," explained Mrs.
Macrae ; " he lodged with me all last winter, when
he was curate here, and when he went away he left
it behind him."
Pressed between the leaves of the little volume
were several leaves of shamrock and a withered
white rose, and on the page where they lay were the
words of a favourite and passionate song, begin-
ning : —
"O my dark Rosaleen !
My own Rosaleen I
Do not sigh, do not weep ! "
FATHER ANTHONY 49
I glanced at the fly-leaf and read the following
words, written in a clear, girlish hand : —
**To Anthony Creenan,
"From his true friend,
'< Eileen Craig."
Seeing that I was curious and interested, the
widow proceeded : —
" Sure the young mistress gave it to him just be-
fore he was ordained.*
"And where is Father Anthony now?* I asked
carelessly.
"Your honour doesn't know?* returned Mrs.
Macrae. " Sure it's a long story and a sad one, sir.
He was taken ill when his brother's trouble came,
and he's been lying at death's door ever since."
Then, as if anxious to change the subject, she
added : " If your honour likes the room I'll be proud
to have you here as long as you wish to stay ; and
as for Andy there, there's a bit of a room beyant
the kitchen, good enough for the likes of him ! "
Here was an idea which had certainly not oc-
curred to me, but now that it was mooted it seemed
to me by no means a bad one. Established in the
widow's cottage, with Andy as attendant and facto-
tum, with the car to scour the country with, a little
fishing, a little shooting, and the possibility of be-
ing mixed up in a mysterious romance, I should be
able, I reflected, to put away a few weeks not un-
60 FATHER ANTHONY
profitably. Directly I had arranged terms with the
widow, and secured the little room, I made my pro-
posal to Andy ; he literally jumped at it, and forth-
with an arrangement was made which bound man,
horse and car to my service so long as I might
choose to remain in Mylrea.
That question being disposed of, we were now
puzzled as to the means of providing stabling.
Andy looked at me, and I looked at Andy, and the
widow spoke.
"The young mistress," she said, "would be only
too glad to let the baste remain where it is, in the
stables of Craig Castle."
After some hesitation I despatched Andy to the
Castle with a message to Miss Eileen and instruc-
tions to bring back with him my luggage. While
he was gone I had a chat with the widow.
I found that she was by no means a badly in-
formed person, and that in manners and conversa-
tional powers she was considerably in advance of the
ordinary Irish peasant, which was accounted for by
the fact that her mother had been for inany years
housekeeper at Craig Castle, that she had been de-
cently educated at Ballina and had learned the
"dressmaking," but that finally she had made a
muddle of her life by falling in love with and
marrying a good-looking sergeant of police, who had
died only a few months after the marriage.
Garrulous like her class, the good woman poured
FATHER ANTHONY 51
out the uneventful story of her life. When she
paused I asked : —
"And how do you manage to live now? "
" Sure, your honour, I've got a few cocks and hens
and a pig, and I do a bit of sewing, and the young
mistress, God bless her, is very good to me/
" Miss Craig seems in sad trouble ? *
"Indeed she is, sir; and there isn't a soul in
Mylrea that wouldn't die to help her out of it. But
everybody knew what would happen as soon as she
fell in love with Mr. Michael.*
"Who is he?"
" Michael Creenan, that's in gaol this day for the
murder of the master, God rest his soul ! "
"And you say that Miss Craig fell in love with
him?"
" Sure enough ; she was in love with him, and she
wanted to marry him, too; but the master hated
him and all his race, and swore never to give his
consent. So one night the old man was carried
home murdered, ai^id the dirty deed was laid at Mr.
Michael's door. "^
"But Miss Craig assures me that he is innocent.*
"And so he is, sir," cried the widow; "but the
proof's black against him, and the mistress is sore
afraid that he's going to his death. But trouble
never comes singly, sir ! When they arrested Mr.
Michael, poor Father Anthony, his brother — him
that lived here and owned that book — went mad
62 FATHER ANTHONY
with shame and grief, and a week or two afther he
took to his bed wid the fever, and now they're say-
ing he'll never lift his head again."
"They are brothers then — Father Anthony and
the unfortunate young man who is in prison ? "
"They are, sir; and by that token they were the
talk of the country side for the love between them,
and though Anthony was the eldest he was the
handsomest and the cleverest — the wonder of all
the clargy when he went to Maynooth."
Here our conversation was interrupted by the
reappearance of Andy, carrying my luggage.
The young lady, he said, would be only too glad
to have the horse and car remain just as long as I
might choose to wish. She also was anxious to
talk further with me, and would be glad if I would
return as soon as possible to the Castle. The home-
ly Bridget, however, had been of a more practical
turn of mind. On learning that I had located my-
self with the Widow Macrae, she had expressed
satisfaction because, she said, Mary Macrae, if she
had a mind to it, could not only mend my clothes
but cook my food, and knew how to make a
" dacent " gentleman comfortable. Whatever Mary
lacked which would add to my comfort, she was to
be sure and send for to Craig Castle.
Having deposited my impedimenta, and finally
installed myself in my new lodging, I strolled back
to the Castle.
FATHER ANTHONY 63
I found Miss Craig in the sitting-room, gazing
from the window out on the quiet sea. As the
door opened to admit me she turned, her pale face
flushed, she stepped eagerly forward extending her
hands, and grasped mine as if I were an old friend.
"I am so glad you have come,* she cried. "1
was afraid you might not. I was afraid I might
never see you again."
" There is no fear of my disappearing like a phan-
tom," I replied; "I am too comfortably settled for
that. But you said that you wished me to help
you. I have come to ask you in what way I can
do so?"
Something in my voice and manner seemed to
depress her and remind her that I was almost a
stranger. She withdrew her hands and turned
wearily away.
" You know that my dear father was murdered ? "
she asked, nervously plucking at her handkerchief
with trembling fingers.
" Yes, I have heard that, and believe me *
''It is too late to help the dead," she cried, inter-
rupting me nervously ; " all my thought now is how
to save the living ! There is no rest, no sleep for
me, until I discover the man who killed my dear
father."
"But the person who is arrested, and who is
charged with the murder? "
Her eyes flashed at me almost angrily.
54 FATHER ANTHONY
"He is innocent! * she exclaimed.
"Can you prove that? " I inquired gently.
"Not yet,* she answered, "but I will prove it! I
must prove it ! God will help me ! "
I watched her in wonder as she moved like a flut-
tering bird up and down the room ; for I knew now
that the man she sought to save was her lover.
"Then you have no proofs whatever?" I asked.
" May I ask if there is any evidence against him —
any evidence, I mean, that he might be the guilty
person ?*
She paused, trembling, and looked me in the
face.
"They think they have proofs," she replied; "and,
indeed, indeed, it looks black against him. But he
is innocent, and I know it. Sure I've talked and
talked, trying to convince them, and now every one
thinks trouble has turned my brain ! No one will
help me ! They are all sorry for Michael, but they
all believe him guilty. Oh, it is cruel, cruel ! I
am so weak, so friendless ! But sure God has sent
you to me, and may be you can help me ! "
How could I reply to such an appeal? I could
only look at her and wonder. Was it possible, I
asked myself, that what she herself hinted at was
true — that the great trouble of her life had really
unhinged her reason ? The strange wild look in her
eyes, that wild despairing tone of voice, the peculiar
restless habit of pressing her white hand to her fore-
FATHER ANTHONY 55
head — all seemed inconsistent with complete sanity.
As this fearful thought came to me I felt for the
poor girl a feeling of intense pity ; she seemed to
read this feeling in my eyes, and when I took her
hand and pressed it sympathetically she drew it
irritably away.
"Sure I don't want you to pity me," she cried,
"but to help me! You will do so, will you
not?''
Of course I assented.
"I will do all I can," I replied, "but at present,
you see, I am somewhat in the dark. I am igno-
rant of the details of the affair as well as of the
actors in it, and without some more information I
don't see how I can advise."
"You are quite right, sir," she said, "but during
the last few weeks I have been so absorbed in my
own trouble that I have come to think everybody
must know it as I do. Well, since you have prom-
ised to help me, it is but right you should hear the
whole story."
"And you will tell it me? "
"Yes; but not now."
I had gained her confidence, and was satisfied.
Feeling that the interview had lasted long enough
for her strength, I rose to go. I had wished her
good-bye, and had nearly gained the door when she
called me back.
"It seems strange, does it not," she said, looking
66 FATHER ANTHONY
wistfully at me, "but I do not even know your
name?'*
I produced one of my cards and handed it to her.
She looked at it, then at me — ^finally she said
thoughtfully : —
" I wonder, after all, if we have ever met before ? "
" Never to my knowledge till that meeting in the
train, but I trust that will not prevent our becoming
friends."
Again I moved towards the door. I had opened
it, when her voice again arrested me.
"I wondered if we had met," she said, "because
when you saw me in the train yesterday your man-
ner was very strange. You recognised me, did you
not?"
"I thought I recognised you."
"How could you have done so if it was our first
meeting?"
I hesitated for a moment, then feeling that per-
fect frankness would be necessary to ensure perfect
trust, I replied: —
" I, like you, have a story to tell, and I will tell
it, but not now. At present you must allow me to
assume a doctor's privilege and prescribe for you
perfect rest."
This time she allowed me to go.
My first care was to find Bridget and to give her
minute instructions as to the treatment of her young
mistress. All these directions the housekeeper was
FATHER ANTHONY 67
eager enough to carry out, my former treatment of
the young lady having been successful enough to
inspire confidence; and when I told her that, for
Miss Craig's sake, I was about to remain tor a time
in Mylrea, her gratitude knew no bounds.
CHAPTEE V
While awaiting such further information concerning
Craig Castle and its young mistress as might reach
me from the fountain-head, I amused myself by
studying the locality into which accident had so
strangely brought me.
If my reader will look at a map of Ireland he will
perceive that the counties of Galway and Mayo
stretch for many miles along a lonely seacoast look-
ing directly across the Atlantic Ocean. Southward,
the town of Galway nestles on the edge of the
sea, at the mouth of a river famous for its salmon-
fishing; and in the extreme north, on the borders
of Sligo, stands the dismal market-town of Ballina,
where the railway until lately ceased. Between
these two towns, and stretching out in peninsula
fashion westward and northwestward, lies a lonely
stretch of lough, moor and mountain, with here
and there a lonely cluster of cabins, distinguished
by the name of a village. So desolate is the coun-
try that a pedestrian might follow the high road for
a summer's day and scarcely meet a single human
soul. There is water everywhere — for where the
sea does not throw in an arm or estuary, fresh-water
FATHER ANTHONY 59
loughs and meres of all sizes, from the mighty
Lough Comi to the tiniest reed-fringed pond lying
in the depths of the moorland, dispute the suprem-
acy of solid land — nay, the very land itself is per-
meated with the softer element, and presents to the
intruding visitor only the dangerous foothold of a
sUppery bog.
Having alighted some miles south of Ballina, and
driven along the lonely road winding in a north-
easterly direction, I had left the wilderness to my
left, and almost entered the limits of Coimty Sligo.
Mylrea, in fact, is situated just on the border line
between the two counties, Sligo and Mayo. Some
twenty miles away to the south-west is the town of
Castlebar, the centre of business and the seat of the
assizes.
I had no sooner settled myself comfortably in the
widow's cottage than I began to puzzle myself how
to pass the time in a region where there seemed no
society, and little or no amusement. I had brought
a few books, but I was certainly in no humour to sit
down and read. So summoning Andy to my pres-
ence I consulted him as to what I should do, pend-
ing another summons from the yoimg lady of the
Castle. He at once proposed that I ^ould go *" fish-
ing."
Curiously enough, I had never thought of that, for
although I had once or twice handled a trout-rod on
a Devonshire stream I was no fisherman. However,
60 FATHER ANTHONY
it is never too late to learn, and I accepted Andy's
suggestion without any hesitation. There was only
one difl&culty — I had neither rod nor fishing-tackle
of any description.
" Sure, I'll get your honour them same," said Andy.
And sure enough he did, for within an hour he ap-
peared at the cottage with a formidable salmon rod
and tackle which he had borrowed at the Castle.
"The young mistress's respects," he said smiling,
"and she hopes your honour will have good sport."
" But where are we to fish ? " I inquired in my
ignorance, " and what are we likely to catch ? "
"Sure we'll fish the river beyant," replied Andy.
"There was a fine flood yesterday, and the wather's
running down. The pools are full of white trout
fresh run from the say, and there's may be a chance
of a sahnon."
Away we trudged across the moorland, ^kndj
shouldering the rod and other tackle, and I stum-
bling after him, till we reached the riverside. A
thin drizzle was blowing from the mountains, and
there was a strong westerly wind, coming now and
again in great, stormy gusts.
Certainly the weather did not look promising to
my unsophisticated eye, but Andy assured me that
it was a fine fresh day, and that the fish were rising.
About a mile above the village was a long deep
pool, through which the river poured in a black,
sullen stream, foaming at the banks round rocks and
FATHER ANTHONY 61
boulders, and rushing at the lower end towards a
noisy fall. On the verge of the pool I took my
stand and began to cast, but no sooner had I raised
the rod than my line seemed to be at the wind's
mercy, and I found it almost impossible to strike
the water. Again and again I made the attempt in
vain. Andy looked on in puzzled wonder, but made
no sign whatever until I had succeeded in fastening
the line to the stump of a tree projecting from the
opposite bank of the river. Then he said, with a
twinkle of the eye : —
" Your honour will be out of practice ? Sure the
line's fast this time, but more's the pity it isn't a
fish!"
Laughing heartily at my own clumsiness, I tugged
at the rod, which was bent almost double with the
strain. It was no use. I was hard fast.
"Bide a bit, sor! " cried Andy; and off he ran to
the head of the pool, and without pausing to divest
himself of boots or stockings or to turn up his trous-
ers, plunged in over the knees and waded across to
the opposite bank. Then running on to the spot
where the hooks were fixed, he set the line free, and
leaving the shallows, hastened back to my side.
I renewed my efforts, and now and again, directed
by my henchman, succeeded in striking the pool
with my cast-line, and lashing the water as with the
thong of a whip. No result whatever ensued, ex-
cept once, when there was a slight boil in the water
62 FATHER ANTHONY
close to my tail-fly, and I caught a glimpse of some-
thing like a fish's shining back.
" It was a salmon, your honour ! " cried Andy.
" A salmon ! " I echoed, panting with my exer-
tions. " Did he rise to the fly ? **
" Sure he rose to take a look at it ! " returned
Andy, grinning. "Try him again, sor — drop it
gintly over his nose."
I tried to drop it gently, but it fell like a lump
of lead ! Again and again I cast, and always the
same disastrous result; till at last, panting, perspir-
ing and out of breath, for the rod was heavy and my
back was aching, I paused in despair.
"I'm afraid it's no use," I said. "I'm no fisher-
man ! "
"Will your honour let me try?" asked Andy;
and only too delighted to be rid of it, I handed him
the rod.
No sooner had he taken the rod in his hand than
the ragged rogue became transfigured, and I recog-
nised a master of the craft. Neither the weight of
the heavy rod nor the force of the blustering wind
troubled him in the least, so completely did native
talent and acquired skill make him the master of
the situation. Standing a few yards back from the
bank, his face set, his body slightly bent, he wielded
the great rod as if it had been a willow wand, and
with nimble turns of the wrist made the line slip
out and the flies alight on the water with a touch
FATHER ANTHONY 63
as soft as gossamer. Inch by inch he fished the
pool, leaving no likely spot untouched by the fly;
but for a long time his patience and dexterity met
with no reward. I followed him step by step until
he had nearly reached the top of the pool; then,
suddenly the line tightened, the nimble wrist struck
gently, and the fish was hooked !
"Take the rod, your honour," said Andy. "Take
the rod and play him gently ! "
I took the rod, and as I did so there was a leap, a
splash, and a large fish leapt three or four yards out
of the water.
" Gintly ! gintly ! " exclaimed Andy.
"What is it?" I panted, as the hooked fish
plunged again into its native element. "A sal-
mon?"
"Sorra salmon! " was the reply. "Just a little,
small, white trout; but, faix, he's lively! "
A " little, small, white trout " ! Away he went
like a lightning flash down the pool, making for
the rapids at the bottom, while the reel whistled
and the line ran out, and I followed, panting and
stumbling. Again he leapt into the air, and yet
again ! Then, before I knew it, he was over the
falls and in the shallows beneath them, rolling un-
der a stone.
" Eeel in ! Eeel in ! " screamed Andy. " He's fast
yet, your honour!"
I reeled in as fast as possible, and still obeying
64 FATHER ANTHONY
Andy's instructions managed to dislodge the fish
from his dwelling-place ; but away he went as fresh
as ever towards the ocean !
"Hooroo!" said Andy. "He's drowning himself
rushing down stream, sor! Hold on to him yet! "
How it happened I cannot guess — certainly it was
through no skill of mine — ^but a few minutes later
the fish had lost all power of fight and I was draw-
ing him gently towards the shallows where Andy
was waiting, gaff in hand. At the first attempt
Andy missed him, and with a plunge and a struggle
the fish almost broke away. The next moment the
gaff had done its work, and away went the fish over
Andy's shoulder, alighting in the grass at my
feet — a fine fresh-run silver trout of about three
pounds.
Small as he was from an experienced fisherman's
point of view, he seemed in my eyes a monster, and
I was jubilant. Out came my flask, and we drank
my first victim's health in mountain dew.
"When your honour's ready," said Andy, "we'll
try Pol na Bedach Gal."
Pol na Bedach Gal — in English, the Pool of the
White Trout — lay just above the piece of water we
had just fished, and no sooner had we reached its
banks than I discovered that there had been no mis-
take in its christening. It was a dark, long pool,
so situated as to be rippled from end to end by the
westerly wind, which was then blowing ; and every-
FATHER ANTHONY 65
where among its eddies the white trout were rising.
Under Andy's direction I again essayed the rod, and
this time more successfully. I hooked several fish,
and managed to secure three out of the five — ^the
largest was only about two pounds, but all were
bright and fresh run. So small were they that
Andy did not attempt to use the gafif, but, taking
ofif his narrow-brimmed chimney-pot hat, he used
that as a landing-net, a task which was the easier,
owing to the fact that there was a large hole in the
upper rim through which the water could stream
comfortably.
" Sure it's poor sport your honour is having,* cried
Andy, as he captured the last of the small fry, a sil-
very youngster of about a pound. "Will we try for
a salmon?"
As he spoke the water beneath us boiled, a dark
back gleamed and rolled over, and a great circle
widened in the pool.
** Monomondiaol ! " said Andy grinning. " That's
a big customer ! He'll be nine or tin pounds if he's
an ounce ! "
Seating himself on a stone Andy detached the last
line of thin gut and substituted another, drawn from
an old fly-book which he carried in his pocket. On
the tail of the new cast-line was an enormous sal-
mon-fly of the coarsest and gaudiest description,
looking more like a humming-bird than any insect
found in these islands.
66 FATHER ANTHONY
"Surely the fish will never take that!" I ex-
claimed. " Isn't it a great deal too large? *
Andy shook his head.
** It's just a little, shmall fly of my own making,*
he replied. **Many's the fish I've kilt with it on
the Moy. You see, your honour,* he added with a
smile, "fishes is like colleens — they like what's
f oine to look at, and they're mightily taken by a red
jacket trimmed wid gold.*
He handed me the rod.
" Now, your honour, ye'll just try the bit o* wather
where the big fish rose, and if he comes, sor, give
him time and don't strike till he's taken the fly
well into his mouth. Never fear, sor; it's aisier to
chate a big salmon than a small trout, for the
smaller they are the cunninger they are — and by
that same token it's the same wid the colleens.*
Again we approached the water, and again I saw
the water boiling at the same spot and the circles
enlarging round it. Eaising the rod gently, and
taking full advantage of the wind at my back, I let
the great fly fall in the very centre of the circle. It
dropped lightly, and was just whirling away with
the current, when, whish ! the water boiled, the fly
disappeared, the line suddenly tightened, and I was
into the fish ! A salmon this time and no mistake !
Away went the line, whizz went the reel, double bent
the rod ; then the line suddenly slackened, and up
into the air leapt a glittering ten-pounder!
6
68 FATHER ANTHONY
more small trout came to my conjuring, and one of
them — a very minnow of less than half a pound —
had actually the impudence to impale himself on
the great salmon-fly; but that day, at least, I did
not rise another salmon.
"There's more rain coming,* explained Andy,
"and the wind's going round to the north-west; the
big fishes will be waiting for the storm."
As we left the river, however, the wind had quite
fallen, and the air was full of a sultry stillness, such
as often precedes a change of weather. The water
seemed veritably alive! The salmon were rising
high out of the water, which boiled and plashed
around them, and the trout were leaping high into
the air.
"Sorra fish will look at the fly now," said Andy;
"we may be getting home."
CHAPTEE VI
Miss Craig had promised to tell me her story, and
her promise was quickly kept. Two evenings later
I found myself standing in the drawing-room of
Craig Castle, waiting for the appearance of the
young lady whose message had brought me thither.
It was a large rambling room, with an oriel win-
dow looking inland towards the mountains. The
furniture was old-fashioned and much the worse for
wear, but there were a piano, a harp, some music,
and a dainty little bookcase full of quite modem
books, chiefly novels and volumes of verse. It was
the hour of gloaming; the sky, which had been
ashen grey all day, had turned to a deep purple and
red, which warmed the brown bog-land and made
even the tumble-down mud-huts look picturesque,
suffused as they were by the beams of fast-fading
Ught. All was intensely still and solitary, save
now and then when a creel-laden donkey, driven by
a red-petticoated colleen, would flit wearily and
slowly over the bog, or when the distant bark of a
dog would fall like an echo on the ear.
I turned from the window and drew an easy-chair
near the fire ; for the evening was chilly. On the
70 FATHER ANTHONY
white skin rug near to my feet two dogs were
stretched, rough Irish greyhounds which had be-
longed to the late Mr. Craig, and which ever since
his death had wandered aimlessly about the place
as if seeking their master. They had endeavoured
to attach themselves to me ; but they were not satis-
fied, for at times they would whine piteously, and
gaze wistfully into my face, as if asking me to take
them out and amuse them. I had been waiting for
some minutes when they sprang up with, a joyful
bark, and I saw that Miss Craig was in the room.
I rose to meet her, but she motioned me back.
"Please remain where you are. Dr. Sutherland,"
she said; "I have come to tell you the story I
promised. I should like you to remain just where
you are, please, and I will sit here."
She took a stool, placed it near to the fire, and
sat down. Then folding her hands on her knee she
looked up in my face.
"Do you know," she said, "I used to sit like this
with my father ! Ah, do not think it pains me to
talk of him ; it does me good 1 Ever since I talked
about him to you, I have felt my grief grow lighter.
I have no one to talk to but Bridget, and whenever
I speak to her she bids me be silent. I suppose you
wonder who Bridget is? Sure she is my foster-
mother. My poor mother died in her arms the day
I was bom, eighteen years ago. Until I was ten
years old I lived here with Bridget and my father.
72 FATHER ANTHONY
Michael I asked him for an explanation. At first
he seemed disinclined to give one ; there was some-
thing he wished to hide from me, and the moment
I made this discovery, I, girl like, determined that
nothing should he hidden. I continued to urge my
request, and at last he yielded to my entreaties, and
told me that for many years our families had heen
separated by an old feud, and that, in the natural
order of things, we two ought to be mortal foes.
* But my father would not believe in such nonsense,'
I said. * He does believe in it,' Michael answered.
* Your father hates us just as his ancestors hated
mine.' * And do you hate my father, Michael?' I
asked. * God forbid,' he replied ; * I don't hate any
man, and I certainly could not hate any kith and
kin of yours ! ' "
Her voice broke, and she passed her hand over
her eyes, as if to brush away the tears.
"I understand," I said gently. "I have heard
that the vendetta still flourishes in Ireland, and this
is a case in point."
"It was some stupid old quarrel," she answered,
"which took place ever so long ago. There was a
duel and some one was killed — a Craig of those
days. Well, I had not been reared in a superstitious
school, and I was too young to meet trouble half
way. Before a day had passed the nervousness
which the recital of his story had caused me passed
away, and my heart was full of the work of friend-
FATHER ANTHONY 73
ship and mercy which I was about to perfonn
through my acquaintance with Michael Creenan.
How it was to come about I did not exactly know,
but I felt assured that I was going to be peace-
maker. Ah, if I had known then what was about
to happen — if I had only known ! *
She paused for a moment, while a shudder passed
through her frame.
"I am afraid," she said, "that my story wearies
you?**
I assured her that it did not, and begged her to
continue.
"Well, my heart was very light with hope for the
future, when one day my father came to me and
announced his intention of taking me home. By
this time both Anthony and Michael Creenan had
left Dublin, and had returned to their home in
Mayo. Anthony, who had entered the priesthood,
had been offered a curacy, which he had accepted,
allowing Michael to take his place as his father's
heir. Now, I thought, the time has come.
Anthony, Michael, and their mother were the last
representatives of their line, my father and I were
the two last representatives of ours, and it seemed
to me absurd that we should be enemies any longer.
I had invented a plan to end it all, and I determined
that my plan should be carried through.'
"You returned home?"
"I returned home with my father, and for several
MM
THS .Nf:w fO^f
PUBLIC UBRART
A0TOR, LJKNOS
nU>EN FOUNDATIONS
FATHER ANTHONY 75
bade me, and, God forgive me, I never saw him
again!"
Overmastered now by her grief she sobbed aloud.
I rose and bent over her, begging her to cahn her-
self, and since the recital was so painful to tell me
no more — but she clung to me eagerly, and calm-
ing herself with a great effort, continued as fol-
lows : —
" I spent that night in misery, sitting in my room
alone, thinking every moment that my father would
repent of his harshness and come to me. But he
did not come. The next morning when I came down
to breakfast I asked for him. Bridget told me that
he had already left the house. He had driven ofiF
at daybreak, she said, to attend Kilsyth fair. When
I heard this I felt relieved; for it was his usual cus-
tom to attend the fair, and perhaps, I thought, he
would be calmer when he returned. By this time
I had made up my mind to tell him the whole story
of my acquaintance with the Creenans, and en-
treat his forbearance and forgiveness. How wearily
that day dragged along ! The village was quite des-
olate, for most of the men had driven cattle to the
fair, and the women had gone with poultry and but-
ter to the market. I walked out on the seashore,
and then up towards the moorland. Just outside
Mylrea I came face to face with Anthony Creenan."
"Who had become a priest, you said ? "
"Yes, sure, and had come to be Father John's
76 FATHER ANTHONY
•
curate here in Mylrea. Though I had met Michael
so often, I had seen next to nothing of Anthony.
He had always avoided me before, but this time he
came to me and held out his hand. I was'a little
surprised, since I knew he must have heard of what
had taken place the day before. I tried to apolo-
gise for my father, but he stopped me. ' There is
no need for that, Eileen,' he said. ' Through things
like this the family feud has been kept up all these
years, but we are going to stamp it out. I have
spoken to Michael. What took place yesterday
must be forgotten.' I thanked him with all my
heart: then having wished him good-bye, I hurried
home hoping to find my father. He had not re-
turned. I came into this room, sat close by the
window, and watched the road till nightfall. Peo-
ple were driving their cattle home from the fair,
but soon it grew so dark I could see nothing ; so I
closed the window and rang for the lamp. An hour
later I heard the sound of car-wheels and ran to the
door, but the moment I appeared upon the threshold
and saw the crowd of boys with torches, I knew
that something was wrong. Before I could speak
Dr. Mulligan drew me inside the hall and told me
my father was dead ! "
Again she paused, and again she dropped her face
into her hands. The room had grown quite dark, I
could scarcely see her, but I heard that she was cry-
ing. Instinctively I laid my hand upon her bowed
THi ^E^ YOPI
PUAUC UBRART
FOUNDATIONS
FATHER ANTHONY 77
head and stroked her golden hair as tenderly as if
she had been a child. She choked down her sobs,
and lifting her head, said quietly : —
"They carried him in and laid him on his bed,
while I crept quietly to my room and sat there, not
crying and moaning, but quite still and half-
stunned, like one who had received a death-blow.
By-and-by some one knocked at my door. I opened
it and Bridget came in. Her face looked white
and dreadful, for she came with dreadful news.
They had foimd my father's murderer, and he was
in the hands of the police. I asked the man's
name, and she told me that it was Michael Cree-
nan.*
CHAPTER VII
"The next thing I remember," said Eileen, "I was
lying dressed upon my bed. Biddy was standing
on one side of me, and Dr. Mulligan on the other.
At first I was too dazed to understand what had
really taken place ; then in a flash it came back to
me and I burst into tears. The doctor quietly left
the room, Biddy tried to soothe me, but my first
question was, * Where is Michael ? ' * Sure he's in
the barrack, darlin',' said my foster-mother, * and
there let him stop till he's on his way to the gal-
lows, bad cess to him.' I sprang from the bed,
took the first cloak I could find, and wrapped it
about me. ' Where are you going?' asked Bridget
amazed. * I am going down to the barrack to see
Michael,' I said. * He did not kill my father — I
am sure of it ! At any rate I will never believe he
did till he tells me so with his own lips.'
"I silenced Bridget's protestations, hurried from
the house, went straight to the police barrack, and
found that what I had heard was only too true.
On the evidence of a gun, found near .my father's
murdered body, they had taken Michael prisoner.
The scene which had taken place between him and
FATHEB ANTHONY 79
my father had been witnessed and reported. People
spoke also of a second interview which had taken
place at Kilsyth fair, while others averred that An-
thony Creenan must know of his brother's guilt, for
when he had been told of my father's death he had
turned very white and almost fainted away.
"I begged the police-sergeant to let me see the
prisoner, and after much hesitation he took me to
the strong-room. There I foimd Michael looking
deathly pale. He told me of the second interview
which he had had with my father in the fair. Af-
ter the interview they had separated, he said, and
had seen each other no more. Michael had his
greyhound with him, and walked home across the
hills ; and he had been only a few hours at home
when he heard the news of my father's death. A
little later the police came, accused him of the
crime, and took him prisoner. I asked him about
the gim ; he acknowledged it to be his, though he
could give no explanation of how it came to be
found near my father's body. Unfortunately, too,
when he left Kilsyth he struck out over the loneli-
est part of the moimtain, so that he met no one on
the way.
" ' It all looks black against me,' he said, ' but
they're on the wrong scent. I never harmed your
father, Eileen. I swear it before God.'
"I felt that he spoke the truth, and I told him
so. I saw innocence in his eyes, but without proof
80 FATHER ANTHONT
belief was nothing. Suddenly I remembered what
I had heard about Anthony, and leaving the bar-
rack I went to the yoimg priest's lodgings. An-
thony was not there — he had been out all night,
the widow told me, and had returned just before his
brother was arrested for murder. Then, after Mi-
chael had been led away by the police, Anthony
had rushed from the house, and had not since re-
turned. Dazed and half stunned I hastened home,
crept up to the room where my father was lying,
and looked at his dear dead face.
"During the whole of that week I lay in my bed
more dead than alive; but when my dear father
was laid to rest, I rose and followed him to the
tomb. It was a miserable day, I remember; a
chilly wind was blowing and a thin mist was fall-
ing, but all the countryside seemed to be gathered
about the grave.
"It was Father John Croly, our parish priest, wh(l
read the service; but his curate, Anthony Creenan,
was beside him, and it terrified me to look at his
face. How changed he was! His cheeks were
haggard, and his gentle eyes were fiUed with a look
of wild despair. As I looked at him I asked my-
self if the people could be right when they said
that he knew something of his brother's guilt?
But the moment the thought entered my mind I
banished it. I believed in Michael's innocence;
yes, as firmly as I believe in it now! "
THE NEW 'CKil
PUBLIC UiHARY
FATHER ANTHONY 81
This was Miss Craig's story. When she had fin-
ished it she looked at me again eagerly and wist-
fully, and waited to hear what I had to say.
"Your faith is great," I said, "and I hope it will
be justified. You have not the least doubt what-
ever that the police have arrested an innocent
man?"
"I am certain of it," she answered, "and if you
knew him, you would be certain of it too ! "
" You have been called upon, of course, to give
evidence concerning that imfortimate interview,
when the prisoner was struck by your father, and
your father was threatened by him ? "
"Yes," she said. "When Michael was brought
up before the magistrates of Kilsyth both myself
and Father Aiithony had to appear as witnesses
against him. Oh, Dr. Sutherland, that was hard-
est of all to bear; to tell the truth, and to know
that the words of my mouth would help to condemn
him!"
"And the priest, his brother — what had he to
say?"
"He could only protest as I did that he knew
Michael to be innocent, and he, too, was heartbrok-
en and helpless. We could do nothing. Michael
was committed to be tried at the assizes for the
murder of my father."
Just then the room door opened and Bridget came
in with the lights. She looked somewhat aston-
6
82 FATHER ANTHONY
ished to find us sitting so confidentially together,
but she was evidently not displeased. Having
drawn the curtains and made the room look gener-
ally cosy, she retired, leaving us again alone.
For a time neither of us spoke ; then I broke the
silence by asking her if she had anything more to
tell.
"Nothing more," she replied. "You know that
Michael is in prison. In a few weeks he will be
tried, and then if the real murderer is not
foimd "
"He may be foimd yet," I replied, "if your in-
stinct is right."
"It is, it is! " she cried, stretching out her hands
and clasping mine.
"Then, if a man's help is of any avail, rely on
me. Keep up your heart and trust in God ! "
" Oh, what strength and courage you give me ! "
she exclaimed. "Before you came I felt so help-
less and despairing that I cried out, * There is no
God, or such things could not be ! ' But the mo-
ment you came here I felt that you might help me.
That reminds me. Where had you seen me that
you should know me when you met me in the
train ? "
"I fancied I had seen your face before, that wad
all."
I am not good at dissimulation. She saw that I
was keeping something back, and pressed me so
FATHER ANTHONY 83
H that at length, very much against my will, I
Taed to her entreaties and told her of my curious
dim. When I had finished she clutched at the
outpoint which, strange to say, had entirely es-
caj me.
Vhat was the man like?" she asked. "Could
yo^escribe him ? "
m afraid not. I saw his face less distinctly
thatthat of the woman. Remember, also, I saw
him nee only — the woman I saw, or fancied I saw,
seve« times."
''Bt if you could see him in the flesh you might
recogdge him ? "
"Imjpssible; it was only my fancy that I recog-
nised y^."
"It WIb no fancy!" she cried, and again I saw
that wild ljn[ht in her eyes. "I believe you saw me
and saw hifn^ ! How else could you have been,
brought heref The man you saw in your dream
was the murdeier of my father; he killed him, and
he is killing me ! "
I fear her superstition was contagious; at any
rate I yielded to it, and began to fancy that I might
be an instrument in the hands of an avenging Prov-
idence ! Whether I really was one will be discov-
ered by-and-by*
I
1
CHAPTER Vm
Before we parted that day I had promised solomnly
to devote all my time and energies, for some weeks
thenceforward, to establishing the innocence of
Michael Creenan. Carried beyond myself "by the
''aberglaube" of a beautiful young woman's enthu-
siasm, and transplanted from London to an atmos-
phere favourable to romantic unreason, I exchanged
the nature of a staid medical practitioner for that of
an excited amateur detective. There was a mystery
— I was going to fathom it; there was a maiden in
distress — I was going to save her; there was a Cain
hiding from justice — ^I was going to hunt him
down. True, I had my misgivings, chief of which
was the fear that Miss Craig, so far as the faith in
her lover's innocence was concerned, was labouring
under a sentimental delusion. But against that I
set my dream in London, my recognition of the mys-
terious lady in the train, and the instinct which
had led me to follow her into the wilds of Mayo.
Eightly or wrongly, wisely or unwisely, I had
plunged into the very heart of a strange adventure,
and come what might I was determined to see it
through.
FATHER ANTHONY 85
I spent the next few days in familiarising myself
with the locale of the tragedy, and in making in-
quiries concerning the chief actors. I soon discov-
ered that the story I had heard from Miss Craig
was true in the main. There was a very general
opinion, however, that her lover was the guilty
person.^
Meantime letters from my locum tenens in Lon-
don assured me that the great City could do very
well without me, at least for a time, and that
there was not the least necessity for me to hurry
back.
So I abandoned myself to the situation, and was
soon so familiar with my new surroundings that I
began to feel as if I had lived in Ireland all my life.
I knew everybody in the village, and received a
friendly welcome everywhere. Whenever I went to
Craig Castle the retainers greeted me eagerly, and
even the dogs welcomed me with joyful barks,
while Miss Craig herself poured out her heart to me
with all the artless confidence of a child.
She was a tender, unsophisticated creature, lov-
ing, confiding, truthful; the more I saw of her the
more easily could I understand how her sweet girl
ish nature had revolted at the terrible hatred which
had existed between the two families. I could un-
derstand, too, how it was that in her relations with
Michael Creenan she had behaved in a manner
which would have shocked an ordinary nineteenth
86 FATHER ANTHONT
century young lady. Her confidence in myself,
almost a stranger, was also in keeping with her
character. Absorbed in the great trouble which she
believed had been brought about by the one act of
independence of her life, she saw in me a sort of
deputy Providence who had been sent to her as-
sistance in answer to her prayers.
My fame as a "medicine man " had spread, and I
was eagerly called upon by one and all to cure the
village sick. In answer to the call I went from
cottage to cottage, and did my best to conquer ail-
ments, three-fourths of which were traceable to con-
stitutional aversion to soap and water. But in other
respects I was not idle. Wherever I went I was
searching for the clue which might lead me to the
heart of the Mylrea mystery.
It was a strange task which I had set myself, and
the more I thought of it the more hopeless it
seemed. So far as I could make out only one in-
dividual had been at open feud with the murdered
man, and that individual was under arrest. Mr
Craig had been a good landlord — a tolerably hu-
mane man, and popular with all classes. His very
faults had been of a kind which win and secure af-
fection. There was not the slightest reason, there-
fore, to presume that he had any enemies among
the common people. With my deepening convic-
tion that the police were right and Miss Craig ut-
terly wrong, it was terrible to me to meet Eileen's
FATHEB ANTHONY 87
eager questioning look, and to know that I could
hold out no hope whatever.
I had been lunching with her one day about a
fortnight after my arrival, and immediately the
meal was over I had made an excuse to get away.
She had been very silent, and when I rose to go I
saw that her eyes were full of tears. She said noth-
ing, but her face wore a look of despair and even
reproach. Hastening to my lodgings I took up
some old newspapers containing accounts of the
murder, the coroner's inquest, and preliminary in-
quiry, and began to re-read them through to see if,
by any chance, I could discover the clue of which
I was in search.
I had been reading for an hour or so when there
came a tap at the door; almost immediately it was
thrown open and my landlady announced : —
"His Eiverence, Father John."
Looking up I encountered the gaze of the stran-
ger, who was none other indeed than the parish
priest of Mylrea.
Father John Croly, who had been located at Myl-
rea, as curate and as parish priest, for over twenty
years, was a little plump man who wore clothes a
couple of sizes too large for him. Seen from a dis-
tance he had the appearance of a black mushroom,
his body forming the stalk and the huge felt hat,
which completely extinguished his head and face,
completing the resemblance; but when the hat was
88 FATHER ANTHONY
removed Father John was seen to possess a hand-
some weather-beaten face and a pair of striking
coal-black eyes. He came up to me with his little
fat hand outstretched and a smile of welcome on his
dieeks, to which I cordially responded.
"He may be able to tell me more than the news-
papers," was my mental comment. "Ill try."
"I am glad to make your acquaintance, Father
John," I said, as I shook him by the hand.
The priest turned his head on one side and
screwed up one eye ; with the other he scrutinised
me carefully from head to foot.
"Sure you're only a boy," he said reflectively;
"and yet, in a couple of days or so, you've snufifed
out Mulligan, bad cess to him! "
I informed him, with a laugh, that I had passed
the mature age of thirty, and then asked him, for
form's sake, who Mulligan might be.
"Sure it's Mulligan the doctor," said Father John,
with a chuckle, "and you'd best keep out of his
way, sir, for he swears he'U have your life! "
"Indeed? Then I suppose he's angry because
I've been to see some of his patients ? "
"Sure that isn't what he objects to, it's because
you've cured them," said Father John, laughing
boisterously. "But you needn't mind him; he's a
bad fellow, and if he got his deserts he'd have been
out of this long ago. He's always in drink, sir, and
there isn't a man in the village can tell ye of a case
FATHER ANTHONY. 89
he's cured. Now there's my own curate, sir, down
wid the fever, the poor boy, and devil a doctor
handy to do him a good turn. I was wondering,"
he added, screwing up the one eye again, and gaz-
ing at me steadily with the other, "I was wondering
if you'd mind taking a look at him yourself, doc-
tor?"
I expressed my willingness to make myself use-
ful, and then assuming entire ignorance asked who
the curate might be.
"He's just own brother to the young fellow who's
taken up for murder," said Father John, lowering
his voice; and on the instant my senses were on the
alert. "You've heard about that afifair, sir? Well,
now, it's about as ugly a business as I've known in
Ireland ; for if Michael Creenan didn't do it they'll
never catch the blackguard that did, and if they
hang the poor boy they'll kill three others wid him !
For there's his brother, my own curate, knocked
down with the shock; there's his poor mother
watching him and thinking of her other boy in
gaol, and though she doesn't cry her hair turns
grey; and then there's Miss Eileen, just broken-
hearted, with her father lying in his grave, and her
lover waiting to go after with a rope roimd his un-
lucky neck!"
"Her lover, did you say ? "
"Sure enough," said Father John; "sure it's no
saycret, sir, for everybody knows it hereabouts.
90 FATHER ANTHONY
That's the boy she wanted to marry, sir, and
that's the boy she tinll m^rry, if he gets clear of
this!"
I invited Father John to give me his version of
the story, but he was eager to take me away to see
the young priest. a
"If you'd tell that blackguard Apdy to put the
horse to the car I'd take you over to him at once,
sir."
I ordered the car, and in a very short space of
time we were driving rapidly away towards the
mountains. Presently I asked the priest if he had
known his curate long.
"For eighteen years, sir," he returned. "When I
first came to Mylrea as curate he was a little, small
boy of seven, and even then he was playing the
father to his brother Michael, who was just two years
his junior. They grew up together, the father'^ pride
and the mother's joy, sir. Well, the mother was
anxious that one of her boys should be a priest, and
since Michael was a wild, devil-may-care kind of a
boy, her choice fell on Anthony, who was grave and
wise beyond his years, and so the lad was sent away
to Maynooth. It was years after that before I saw
him again, and when I did I couldn't recognise
him, for he'd grown into a tall, fine young fellow,
as handsome as Michael, only dark instead of fair,
and without the devil-may-care look that Michael
had in his eyes. He had a quare worried look
FATHER ANTHONY 91
about him, and I soon found out why. It was one
day when I had been holding confessional in my
own house yonder. I had had a bad time of it, for
I was crippled with the rheumatism, and couldn't
move, and a couple of my people played a dirty
trick on me. It was the blackguard Eory Bournes,
as they call him, and his sister Kate. They're a
bad couple, sir, the two o' them, and I've been al-
ways sorry I gave them absolution that day, for as
Rory left me he just lifted down the saddle that
hung in the hall and made ofiF wid it; then came
Kate, and after I'd absolved her and given her
wholesome advice, out she goes and takes the bridle
that was along wid the saddle! But I got them
both back, sir," continued the priest emphatically,
"for I denounced the pair from the altar, and the
very next day some of my congregation fetched the
things and placed them in the hall."
The priest, who had evidently forgotten the thread
of his story, rambled on garrulously for some min-
utes ; then I led him back.
"Did Anthony Creenan confess what was trou-
bling him? " I asked.
"He did not, sir," returned the priest indignantly.
"If he had done so I should not be speaking to you
about it now, for the secrets of the confessional are
not to be revealed to man. No, sir, he came to ask
my advice. ' Father John,' said he, ' have I gone
too far to turn back ? Must I go on now and be-
i
92 FATHER ANTHONY
come a priest?' Well, sir, I was in a bad mood
that day, and when I saw that the lad was wavering
I did not try to steady him. I placed my hand
upon his shoulder and looked into his eyes. * An-
thony Creenan,' said I, ' unless you feel that you've
done with this world, never enter the priesthood.
It's a barren life ! So long as you're on this earth
you must sever all ties and crush out the heart
that's in ye, and then, when you've passed through
a weary, isolated existence, you die lonely and iso-
lated still, with the glory of the priestly robes
around you, and that's all ! ' Well, sir, the lad's
cheek flushed, and he poured into my ear his tale
o' trouble. He had fallen in love with Miss
Eileen ! "
He paused for a moment, while I looked at him
in amazement.
"Is it of Anthony Creenan you are speaking?" I
asked.
"Sure enough," returned the priest; "of the lad
I'm taking you to see."
"But he is a priest."
" He wasn't ordained then, sir," answered Father
John, " and at the same time he had the heart of a
layman, for he was fairly sick for love. I could
see it in his eyes. Well, my advice to the lad was
this — and may be it wasn't such bad advice after
all — ' If your heart fails ye turn back, and may be
God will make a man of ye and find Himself a bet-
FATHER ANTHONY 93
ter priest.' So he went away happy, and since I
had promised to guard his seciet I said nothing.
Well, sir, as nothing occurred I ceased to think of
the matter, especially as the two lads were in Dub-
lin, and I had never set eyes on Miss Eileen at all.
But only last year I was warned to expect a new
curate, and when he came, who should it be but
Anthony Creenan? The same lad, sir, but wid all
the soul gone out of him. I just mentioned the
past, and I saw it was just like tearing open an old
wound. ' It was not to be, Father John,' said he;
' Michael loves her. It is well I discovered this,
for if I had tried to win her love and had succeeded
in doing so, it would have broken his heart. It
wasn't for me to enter the lists against my brother,
though it broke my heart to lose what he woidd
may be win ! ' Well, sir, I feared for him, and I
gave him some good advice. He took my hand.
' Father John,' said he, * have no fear for me. I
swear to you before God that I will keep every
vow I have taken till the day I die.' "
" Then for his brother's sake he had given up the
hope of marrying and had entered the Church ? "
"Yes, sir," replied the little priest, "and 'twas a
sacriiSce that did him credit, the brave boy ! "
"He must have been deeply attached to his
brother?"
"Attached, is it? Damon didn't love Pythias
better; and by the same token blood is thicker than
94 FATHER ANTHONY
water, and the two boys had drunk their milk from
the same mother's breast. It's little wonder, ye
see, doctor, that the poor boy is fairly knocked
down, now that his brother, for whom he has sacri-
ficed all his life, is waiting in gaol to be hanged 1 "
CHAPTER IX
The road along which we were driving wound in-
land, through as desolate a landscape as the eye
ever rested on, even in Western Ireland. Dark
stretches of moorland extended on every side, and
beyond them rose low sullen mountains, half ob-
scured with rainy clouds. Only the sound of the
car- wheels, and from time to time the cry of a cur-
lew, broke the silence.
Twice we passed through a cluster of cabins dig-
nified by the name of a village, and ragged men,
women and children stood at the doors saluting the
priest as he passed by.
At last the road began to ascend upward, and
passing into the very shadow of the hills we reached
an elevated plateau, in the centre of which stood a
large, slate-covered mansion, with farm buildings
clustering aroimd it, and green patches of park or
meadow-land on every side. There was a small
lodge on the roadside and an entrance gate, but the
lodge was roofless and untenanted, and the gate had
fallen from its hinges.
"The Creenans were a rich family once, sir," said
Father John, as we drove through the gate, "but
96 FATHBB ANTHONY
when the banks broke in Dublin the old man lost a
heap of money, and soon after that he died. But
the widow has the land still, and but for this trou-
ble the place might have prospered after all."
As he spoke we drove up to the front of the
house. In a moment Father John jumped down
and rapped with his umbrella upon the door, which
was almost instantly opened by a smart-looking
Irish girl, who curtsied low at sight of the pastor,
and invited him to enter. Following in his foot-
steps I crossed a wide hall, and was ushered into
a small sitting-room. Casting a hurried glance
around I saw that the room was neatly but plain-
ly furnished, and that the walls were hung with
sacred pictures and crucifixes, which marked the
room as the sanctuary of the young priest. Having
shown us in, the girl closed the door very gently
before she turned to Father John.
"Yer riverence," she whispered, "the mistress is
lying down."
"Don't disturb her, Nora," he returned. "I've
just brought wid mc a new doctor to see Father
Anthony. Is he better to-day ? "
"He is not, yer riverence," returned the girl, her
eyes filling with tears; "he's just as bad as he can
be."
"The poor boy! Take us to him, Nora."
Without another word the girl left the room, in-
viting us to follow her. Having crossed the hall
Ik
FATHER ANTHONY 97
again we mounted a flight of oaken stairs, passed
along a narrow passage with closed doors on either
side of it, and at the extreme end of the passage
reached a door which stood partly open. At a sign
from Nora the priest pushed open the door and en-
tered. I followed.
It was the room where the sick man was lying.
On first entering I could see almost nothing, but I
could hear a heavy breathing, broken now and again
by a deep sigh, and again by a feverish moan. The
light was excluded by heavy curtains, which were
drawn across the window, but when I made a move-
ment to pull them back the girl stopped me.
"Begging your honour's pardon," she said, "but
the mistress did that. When the light comes in it
seems to trouble him, and so the mistress keeps the
curtains drawn."
" But if I am to do him any good I must see him ;
and I can't do so in this light."
She curtsied, drew the curtains a little aside, and
I saw my new patient.
Though his features were pale and pinched with
pain he looked only a boy, not more than twenty at
most. His clean-shaven face was deathly pale,
but there was a hectic spot on either cheek, his
eyes were half closed, and he was quite uncon-
scious. He lay upon a narrow bed in a farther
comer of the room, and while one thin white hand
clutched at the coverlet and his head rolled rest-
7
98 FATHER ANTHONY
lessly and feverishly from side to side, he gave out
those heartrending sighs and moans. Very softly
on tiptoe Father John approached the bed and took
the young priest's hand in his own, and as he did
so his kindly eyes filled with tears.
" Has he been long like this, Nora ? " he whis-
pered.
"Just to-day, yer riverence," answered the girl.
" It was last night, when he was sitting up in his
chair wid the mistress, that a process-server came
and gave him a bit of paper. It was a process, yer
riverence, to make .him go and give evidence
against Master Michael. Sure, Father Anthony
took the paper and never said a word, but he just
turned as white as a sheet; and this morning the
mistress found him moaning and raving just like as
if he was mad."
" Has Dr. Mulligan seen him ? *
"He has not, yer riverence. The mistress sent
over Andy O'Brien for him, but they said he had
gone to Dublin for a week."
"So much the better," said Father John; and,
turning to me, he added : " Now, doctor, can ye do
anything for the poor boy ? "
Approaching the bed and examining the patient,
I found that he was in a high state of fever. The
examination seemed to disturb tini, for he moaned
terribly ; then, as I bent over Wm with my fingers
on his pidse, he raised himself i^ t)^> stared around
FATHER ANTHONY 99
with vacant eyes, and moaning aloud, "Michael,
Michael ! ** fell back upon the bed.
"Hark to that, now! " cried the girl; "that's what
he's always saying. He's always calling for Master
Michael. Oh, what will we do at all, at all? "
" What is it, doctor ? " asked Father John, with a
doleful shake of the head.
"He has brain fever."
" But you can cure him ? "
" I'll try, but remember the etiquette of our pro-
fession. If he is one of Dr. Midligan's patients, I
have no right to touch him."
" Sure, you didn't stand upon etiquette with them
poor creatures in the village? "
" I didn't touch one of them till the doctor had
been sent for and had refused to come."
"And hasn't he been sent for in this case, and he
can't come ? Sure, you wouldn't let the poor boy
die ? Come, you'll cure him for Miss Eileen's sake
if you won't do it for mine."
I wanted no persuasion, for I was already inter-
ested in this new case, and, further, my curiosity
was strangely aroused. " There is something more
in this than meets the eye," I thought to myself,
and I was eager to find out what that somethiag
was. So I gave Father John the promise he
sought, and we parted company, he going on foot to
make some calls in the surrounding valley, while I,
after preparing some simple medicines and giving
2S2Z^'^^
100 FATHER ANTHONY
necessary instructions to Nora, drove straight back
to Mylrea.
I was up betimes in the morning, and after par-
taking of a hasty breakfast, I set ofiF on my rounds.
By this time I was rather a busy man, and if
guineas had flown in as thickly as patients, I
should soon have been a rich one. The news of my
visit to the yoimg priest had managed to get abroad,
and I was besieged with questions wherever I
went. By answering some of these and applying a
few others, I managed to learn that Father An-
thony, though his tenure of office had been but
short, had succeeded in winning the hearts of his
congregation. Every one spoke, too, of his passion-
ate affection for his brother Michael, and no one
seemed surprised that the terrible position in which
his brother was placed should have thrown him on
to a sick bed.
Early in the forenoon I was again at the door of
the old mansion, where my coming was eagerly
looked for. The fever had heightened ; the patient
seemed rather worse. He was still unconscious,
still rambling wildly, but I found that his tempera-
ture had not increased. Mrs. Creenan, a pale, worn
woman with silver hair, now sat by the bed hold-
ing her son's feverish fingers in her own, while the
tears were rolling slowly down her furrowed cheeks.
"The fever has only just reached its height," I
said. "He will be rather worse before he is better.
FATHER ANTHONY 101
but I think he'll pull round. He should have a
man near him, however, and as I am not particular-
ly wanted elsewhere I will stay if you wish it."
My offer being eagerly accepted, I settled down
for the time being as nurse as well as doctor.
During the day my services were not much re-
quired. I paid frequent visits to the sick room, but
was not regularly established there. At night,
however, I sent all the household to bed, and re-
mained to keep watch alone.
It was a stormy night. A north-westerly gale
was raging along the coast, and about midnight
thunder and lightning came on with heavy rain.
The atmospheric influence seemed to have a disturb-
ing efTect upon my patient. As the fever height-
ened his ravings grew more wild and incoherent.
Again and again he gave that piteous, despairing
cry, and mentioned his brother's name; then he
called aloud on his brother to forgive him, and on
God to pity him, until at last a horrible dread and
suspicion crept into my mind. Could it be pos-
sible, I asked myself, that the young priest was not
merely mourning for his brother, but was haunted
by the knowledge of his guilt ? Was it not even
possible that, in some mysterious way, he was a
participator in the crime ? No sooner had I enter-
tained the thought than I rejected it indignantly.
One glance at the simple, boyish face was enough ;
there was no guilt or evil there — only tender, over-
102 FATHER ANTHONY
mastering love. The night wore away, the critical
moment passed, and towards morning the young
man fell into a deep sleep.
As the clock struck seven he was still resting
quietly, and I was sitting in the easy- chair gazing
abstractedly into the fire, when there came a gentle
tap at the door, and Mrs. Creenan entered the room.
She was rejoiced to hear from me that the crisis was
safely over, and thanked me most fervently for what
I had done. She had come, she said, to take her
place by the sick bed ; a room had been prepared for
me, would I go and take the rest I so sorely
needed?
I wanted no rest, but I went to the room which
had been prepared for me, and after refreshing my-
self with a wash, prepared to leave the. house. Be-
fore doing so, however, I returned to the sick room
to take another look at my patient.
I found him lying as I had left him and sleeping
as peacefully as a child. His mother was sitting in
the chair which I had occupied during the watches
of the night. I approached the bedside and stood
looking at the sleeping man. As I stood thus he
opened his eyes and returned my gaze.
For a time he lay looking at me as calmly as a
child newly awakened from a refreshing slumber,
then he covered his great dark eyes with his thin
hand. As he removed it his memory seemed to
come back. I saw it in a moment by the light
FATHER ANTHONY 103
which shone in his eyes, by the terror-stricken look
which crossed his face, and by the way he turned
to his mother and clutched her hand.
"I have been ill/ he said, " I know that. Tell
me how long I have been here? What have I
done, what have I said, mother? "
She bent down and put her lips to his brow.
"God bless you, my son," she said. "You have
been ill, but He has spared you to us. He would
not leave me altogether alone I "
" But Michael, mother," he cried wildly. " Where
is Michael?"
She made no answer, and he, comprehending her
silence, turned his head wearily away. There was
no necessity for me to linger, so after assuring Mrs.
Creenan that all immediate danger was past, and
giving her full instructions as to future treatment,
I took my leave and drove back through the watery
moorland to Mylrea.
CHAPTER X
Half-way between the home of the Creenans and
my abode at Mylrea was a miserable, tumble-down
village, a mere cluster of huts and cabins, lying at
the foot of the rainy hills. There was a small
whitewashed house with a slated roof, and at the
door of this house, as I was driving past, I found
the parish priest standing, the centre of a group of
ragged peasants.
"Step down a moment, doctor," he said, as Andy
drew rein. I jumped down at once, not sorry to
stretch my limbs, and, pushing his way into the
house. Father John led me into a large room, fur-
nished like an ordinary kitchen, but with several
deal tables and stools ranged along the walls. A
man in his shirt-sleeves stood before the fire, a
woman sat in a comer peeling potatoes, and throw-
ing them into a large iron pot, and an ill-favoured
sow with several young ones was rolling and grunt-
ing on the hearth.
"Shamus, ye thief," said the priest, accosting the
man, " clear out o' this, and take the woman that
owns ye along with ye, and bring us a drop of thd
best ye have convanient."
FATHER ANTHONY 105
The man grinned and said something in Irish to
the woman, who immediately rose, curtsied, and
followed him out of the room.
"Is this a public-house?" I asked, looking cu-
riously around me.
"Well, it's not a licensed house, sir," answered
the priest, " it's a sort of a kind of a shebeen, and
the only place for many a mile where there's decent
refreshment for man and beast. The peelers know
Shamus, and are glad enough to get a taste them-
selves when they're passing by, though the stuflF he
sells has never paid duty."
As he spoke the man re-entered and placed on the
^ble before us an earthenware jug containing spir-
^^, another containing water, and some glasses.
""Is it the rale stuflF, Shamus?" asked Father
^'^tn, holding the jug of spirits to his nose and
^*^iffing critically.
^'It is, your riverence," replied the man. "Mi-
^^i^el MacGeary made it up on the mountain."
The priest nodded.
* ril be after telling Michael to send me some
^^^^^r to Mylrea; but now get along with ye, and
^^^n't come back till I call ye."
The man immediately left the room, closing the
^^^or behind him. Father John poured out some of
^*^e spirit into tumblers, one of which he passed to
e, while he held the other up to the light.
"Shamus is right," he said; "it's good stuff, and
i
106 FATHER ANTHONY
Michael MacGeary's own making. I prefer Jame-
son myself, but potheen like this same, when it's
made by a man like MacGreary, and has been kept
till it's saisonable, wouldn't harm a fly, sir."
I explained that I thought potheen was merely
the Irish name for whisky of any kind.
"You're right and you're wrong, doctor," returned
the priest with a laugh. " Sure enough potheen is
whisky, but it's whisky with a difference. You'll
observe," he continued, filling his tumbler slowly up
with water, "you'll observe that this same, now I
put the water to it, keeps clear as the crystal stream
itself. Now, bad potheen turns blue, and bluer yet
with every drop of water, and there's clouds like
verdigris in it, the colour of bad milk, and besides
that it has a bad smell and gives to the inside of a
man the devil's own vexation. But drink up that,
doctor, and tell me what you think of it."
Thus urged I filled up my glass and raised it to
my lips. The liquor had a curious, peat-like smell,
but was not at all impalatable. Cocking his head
on one side, and screwing up one eye, the priest
watched me critically.
"It's not bad," I said. "Do I imderstand that it
is whisky which has been illicitly distilled, and has
never paid duty?"
"That's it, sir," cried Father John, with twink-
ling eyes. " Ye know now what potheen is, and
I'm glad you like it. I gave a little of this once to
108 FATHER ANTHONY
i
"and I am afraid that there is something on h^
mind." '
"On his mind, is it?'' echoed the little pri^t
with a heavy sigh and a doleful shake of the head.
" It's in the very heart of him, and the soul of him,
poor boy; for sure he was bom to trouble as the
sparks fly upward. And believe me. Dr. Suther-
land, it takes a strong man, a broad-chested man, a
man of iron muscle, to be a priest in Ireland ; and
mind you, Anthony Creenan is a gentleman's son,
not a common man like me. I was bom of the peas-
antry, doctor; and my mother. Lord rest her soul,
gave me the constitution for all weather and all pri-
vations and all vexations ; and though they said at
Maynooth that I had more Latin and Greek than
many of them, it isn't Latin and Greek that serve a
priest best, but the lungs and heart of a strong
man!"
He paused, sipped his whisky, and continued : —
" Many's the time I've seen that poor boy almost
fainting, when he had to cross the mountains on an
empty stomach to say Mass, and sorra a bite of
bread or sip of water to stay his stomach till Mass
was said ! And add to that, doctor, he's what they
call a taytotaler, and doesn't know the difiference of
Jameson or potheen from mother's milk. Often
have I said to him, ' Anthony, you should take a
dhrop ! ' But he's only smiled and shook his head,
poor boy ! "
FATHER ANTHONY 109
"Does his brother resemble him? " I asked.
"He does not, sir," was the emphatic reply.
"Michael was always a merry boy, and many's the
time he's tasted this same potheen in Shamus'
kitchen here."
"I mean personally — in character and tempera-
ment."
Father John shook his head.
"No, indeed, sir," he replied. "Sure they're like
sunlight and moonlight; and the sunlight was Mi-
chael till his trouble came, and the moonlight was
Anthony. Michael was all for sport and fishing
and coursing and dancing with the^colleens ; he was
the life of every wake, and the centre of all divar-
sion. But Anthony was all for books and book-
learning ; and sorra a colleen ever troubled the heart
of him, tm the day he set eyes on Miss Eileen ! "
"Do you think," I asked, "that she is any way
concerned with the trouble? Does he regret, I
mean, the sacrifice which he has made, and "
The little priest interrupted me indignantly,
thumping his plump hand on the table.
"No, sir! "he cried. "He has buried all that
with liis past life, and the thoughts in his soul are
clean and holy, as becomes the thoughts of a priest
of God."
"Then what is the cause of his trouble? " I per-
sisted. " Is it attributable solely to his anxiety on
account of his brother? "
i
110 FATHER ANTHONY
"Of course, and little wonder!" replied Father
John. "It's killing him and breaking his heart
that the shame and suspicion has come upon Mi-
chael. The night he heard of his arrest he went
down like a man with a bullet in his heart, and he's
never risen from his bed since."
I had my own suspicions on the subject, but I
did not care to communicate them to my companion
at that moment. So I rose to my feet, and inti-
mated my intention of getting along to my quarters.
"You'll cure the poor boy, doctor?" cried Father
John coaxingly.
"At any rate, I'll do my best," I answered, "and
at present, as I told you, I think he's out of danger.
Can I give you a lift as far as Mylrea? "
Father John shook his head.
" No, sir ; I'm staying here to-night, for I've an-
other visit to pay up the mountain."
Just then the door opened and the man of the
house entered.
"I ax your riverence's pardon, but there is a
woman here wants to spake to you."
"Who is she, Shamus? " inquired the priest.
" She's Kathleen Bournes, from this side Kilsyth,
your riverence ; and she's been inquiring for Father
Creenan."
As the man spoke a woman appeared in the door-
way. She wore one of the long cloaks common
among the peasant women of Ireland, and the hood
E UAH SPOKE A WOMAN AFPBARED IN THK
i>OORWAy,"
\Pagt \Vi-
TH
OHi
"DBUi;UBRART
4.DEN F^-'MDa'^TONS
FATHER ANTHONY 111
was drawn over her head ; but I caught the glance
of two great black eyes which were turned eagerly
in my direction.
"What is it, my girl?'* asked Father John
sharply.
The woman replied at once, in a deep and not
unmusical voice:— ^
"I was asking for Father Anthony, your rever-
ence, and Shamus was telling me that there was an
English doctor here who was looking after him."
" Sure enough, then ! "
" I wanted to know if he . WQuld- soon be better,
your reverence?"
The question was% simple one, but the manner in
which it was putj revealed a deep and' growing agi-
Nation, and the great dark eyes were still set anx-
lously on mine.
"I have just left him," I said, "and he is out of
danger."
"Thank God for that! " cried the woman fervent-
ly, crossing herself as she spoke. " Does your hon-
our think hell soon be out o' doors? "
Here the little priest interfered, with an air of
angry authority.
"What's that to you, Kathleen Bournes? You've
the priest of your own parish to look after you ! "
"Sure I know that, your reverence," was the re-
ply, "but Father Anthony's a holy man! "
"Amen to that! " said Father John.
112 FATHER ANTHONY
"And sure, your reverence/ continued the wom-
an, "it's many the kind word and kind look me
and mine has had from Father Anthony, and our
hearts were grieving sore when we heard of his dis-
tress ! *
Although the speech was still addressed to the
priest the dark eyes still sought mine, as if implor-
ing me to set their anxiety at rest. So I said as I
prepared to depart: —
"He'll be out and about before long, I hope/
The woman, as if satisfied, turned quickly to Fa-
ther John : —
" Your reverence "
"Well, my woman?"
"Is there any more news of Master Michael? "
" Sorra news, except that he's lying in the gaol at
Castlebar waiting his trial."
The woman raised her hands and uttered a sharp
cry, like the call of a bird in pain.
"Bad luck to them who took him there! He
never harmed the master, rest his soul ! " she ex-
claimed, and drawing her hood closer over her head,
she left the room.
" Who is she? " I inquired of the little priest. He
shrugged his shoulders.
"She's one Kathleen Bournes," he replied; "and
her brother, sir, is one of the biggest blackguards in
County Mayo."
Turning to the keeper of the shebeen, I inquired
FATHER ANTHONY 113
how much I had to pay for our refreshment, for I
had observed that Father John had made no attempt
at payment.
"Not a penny, sir," cried the priest, interfering
peremptorily, "K Shamus charged you for the
dirty drop of liquor I'd lay my stick across his back
for payment/
The man grinned.
"Your honour's welcome," he said, a little du-
biously I thought, as I slipped a shilling quietly
into his hand and passed out in company with the
priest.
I mounted my car, shook hands with Father
John, and drove away towards Mylrea. As I left
the last cabin of the village behind me I saw on the
road before me the woman who had accosted us in-
side the shebeen. She was trudging along miser-
ably through the rain, which was now pouring down
in torrents.
The moment we reached her I called on Andy to
stop.
"Are you going our way?" I asked. "K so,
jump up on the car."
Scarcely raising her head, she answered in the
same low musical voice which had previously at-
tracted my attention: —
" I'm going to my home this side Kilsyth. Drive
on, your honour, and never mind the likes o' me ! "
But I persisted; for her way I now knew lay
8
114 FATHER ANTHONY
through Mylrea, and I was determined not to lea^B
her afoot in such weather. Thus urged, she got ap
on the car by the side of Andy, and I saw as ,^he
did so that her figure was young and not ungrrice-
ful. I
As we drove along I tried more than once to get
into conversation with the girl, but she replied to
me only in monosyllables, though once or twice she
exchanged a few muttered words with my driver.
She appeared to be sullen and almost savage.
When we reached the widow's cottage, and Andy
pulled up at the door, I was occupied for some mo-
ments in getting my wraps together and fishing out
my case of medicines and surgical instruments.
When I looked up to address a farewell word to the
girl, I found that she had disappeared ; but I caught
a glimpse of her along the road, trudging wearily
through the rain.
"That's a queer sort of girl," I said to Andy
laughingly.
"Your honour may well say that," was the reply.
" Some say she's mad entirely, and some say she's
been crossed in love."
"From what I saw of her I should say she is
rather handsome."
"She is indeed, your honour," answered Andy, as
he followed me into the^ cottage, " and many 's the
boy that's been afther her and wanting to marry
her, but by that same token she'll look at none of
FATHER ANTHONY 115
them, and when they come after her she's only a
rough word from behind the door/
With another laugh I dismissed the strange girl
from my mind, little suspecting at that moment that
we were ever to meet again.
CHAPTER XI
On reaching my lodgings I found a message from
Miss Craig begging me to see her without delay.
Hastening down to the Castle I found the girl in a
state of great excitement. She was about to start
for Castlebar, having received permission to have
another interview with Michael Creenan, and she
proposed that I should accompany her.
"His lawyer is to be in the town to-day," she
said ; " I thought you might see him, and learn ex-
actly how the case stands."
Nothing could have pleased me better. It was
arranged that we should drive to Castlebar at once,
remain for the night at an hotel in the town, and
visit the gaol in the forenoon of the next day. It
was late in the day when we left Mylrea, and the
distance we had to traverse was fully twenty Irish
miles, but the two-horse car bore us along at gallant
speed, and we arrived at Castlebar before night-
fall.
Our destination was the King's Arms, a somewhat
dismal hostelry near the market-place, distinguished
like most Hibernian hotels by draughts, discomfort,
and a wretched cruisine. A dreary chamber called
FATHER ANTHONY 117
a drawing-room had been set apart for Miss Craig's
private use, and there, waited on by a forlorn head-
waiter with a black eye, we dined that evening to-
gether. The meal and the service were detestable,
but what we lacked in comfort we gained in
sympathy, for everybody in the place, from the
sporting landlord to the head-waiter aforesaid, was
eager to be of service to the unfortunate young lady,
whose father had been a constant guest at the hotel
during his lifetime.
At half-past ten o'clock the next morning we
walked over to the gaol and were received by the
governor, an old friend of the murdered gentleman.
He received Miss Craig very kindly, but I found at
once that he did not share her faith in the innocence
of the prisoner. After a few friendly words he
ordered us to be conducted to the cell where Michael
Creenan was confined.
I was full of curiosity to see the young man about
whom I had heard so much, but when we reached
the door of the cell I hung back, and allowed Eileen
to enter alone. A few minutes afterwards, however.
Miss Craig called to me from the cell, and I found
myself face to face with young Creenan.
Tall, powerfully though slightly built, fair-haired
and blue-eyed, with a face still bold and bright, de-
spite the haggard lines which care had left upon it,
he seemed the very youth to win and keep a wom-
an's love. When I made my appearance he was
118 FATHER ANTHONY
standing by the little grated window, holding
Eileen's hand, and looking sadly into her face.
She, poor child, was crying, not wildly and passion-
ately, but in a quiet, heartbroken way, letting the
tears run slowly down her pale cheeks and biting
her quivering lips to keep back her sobs. But
Michael Creenan held his head erect like a man
prepared to face his fate, whatever it might be.
"This is my friend, Dr. Sutherland," said Eileen.
" Sure you know how good he has been to me ! "
I held out my hand; the young man gave it a
hearty clasp.
" Thank you, sir," he said with quiet dignity. ** K
you are Eileen's friend, you must be mine."
"Indeed he is your friend, Michael," cried Eileen.
" You have no better in the world, for he believes in
your innocence, and he is trying his best to set you
free."
Then she told him of the curious dream which
had been the means of my coming to Craig Castle,
and of my promise to aid her in discovering the
man who had caused her father's death.
"If you succeed in discovering the truth," he said
sadly, "you are a clever man. They have managed
to make my guilt so clear that nobody believes in
me now, except Eileen."
" And Anthony ! " cried Eileen, " and your mother,
Michael."
"Ah, yes, my mother, God bless her," cried the
FATHER ANTHONY 119
lad; "but if Anthony believes in me, as you say he
does, why has he never come to see me? "
"He couldn't come," I said. "He has been too
ill.'
"HI?" repeated Creenan. "He was well enough
when they examined him at the last inquiry/
"The shock was too much for him," I said, "and
he has had brain fever. It came upon him when he
was subpoenaed to appear against you at the trial."
"Against me? How's that?" asked the young
man with a startled look.
"I don't know," I replied. "At any rate, he has
been called for the prosecution. Is there anything
he can prove ! "
" Nothing. As ill-luck would have it, I was en-
tirely alone that day. My brother wanted me to
carry a message for him to Kilsyth, and I walked
there across the hills, taking my dogs along with
me. In the afternoon I went up to the inn to have
something to eat before I started for home, and there
I met Eileen's father. We were alone in the coffee-
room, so I thought it a good opportunity to say what
I had to say. I told him I was determined to marry
Eileen. Well, he was very angry, and said things
that made me angry too, and while we were at
words other folk came in. I left the inn, and I
solemnly swear I never saw Mr. Craig again."
As he spoke, he looked eagerly at Eileen, as if
imploring her not to doubt him. Without a word
120 FATHER ANTHONY ^
she took his hand, and softly sobbing, placed it
against her lips.
"What did you do after you left the inn?" I
asked.
''I got a lift on a car, sir, as far as Ballymore;
then I cut across the hills home. That night the
old gentleman was shot with my gun, and his body
was found about a hundred yards from the spot
where I had left the car."
"Can you account for your gun being there? "
"Indeed I can't, sir."
"Hadn't you missed it? "
" No. You see, the coursing season was on, and
I was a good deal out with the dogs."
"Where had you left the gun? "
" At home, in my own room. It was fair time,
and most of the servants were away; but I don't
think any one could have entered the house."
He spoke with all the air of an innocent man.
Every word, every tone, was manly, and he looked
me fearlessly in the face.
"I suppose your mother and brother saw you
when you reached home ? "
"My mother did. Anthony wasn't there."
" Do you know where he was ? "
" No, sir. He had been out making sick calls all
the afternoon and late into the night, and he only
returned in time to see me arrested under our own
roof. I'm afraid the evidence against me is very
*i
FATHER ANTHONY 121
strong, and I don't wonder that many people think
me guilty. But I don't think they'll hang an inno-
cent man, even if the right man doesn't come for-
ward. Something may crop up at the trial, and if
not, well, sure I'm not afraid to die ! *
A cry from the loving girl, and she sprang swiftly
into his arms. He whispered a few words in her
6ar, and I saw that it was with difficulty that he
choked down his own tears. Just then the turnkey
appeared and intimated that the interview must end.
-f moved towards the door, but Eileen clung to her
'over and sobbed aloud.
"Oh, Michael," she cried, "I cannot bear to leave
^Du here! It breaks my heart! It breaks my
^^rt!"
The young fellow soothed her as well as he could,
^Jiough I saw that it was still hard work for him to
^eep from breaking down himself. At last we man-
^^ed to get her away, and I conducted her back to
^le hotel.
Having confided Eileen to the care of the land-
lady, a kindly, motherly woman, I sallied forth
alone to have an interview with the lawyer who
Was preparing the defence. I found him in some
temporary offices near the market-place and up to
his ears in legal documents. He was a fussy little
man, O'Flannigan by name, quick as a weasel, sharp
as a needle, with very little belief in human nature.
When I entered the room where he sat he had his
122 FATHER ANTHONY
watch in his hand. He looked from it to me, and
said : —
" I can give you ten minutes, sir. Sony I can't
make it more, but this is a busy day."
** I merely wish to ask a question or two on behalf
of Miss Craig. She wishes to know how matters
stand with regard to Michael Creenan's defence."
The lawyer's face fell, but he answered briskly
enough : —
" Very well indeed, sir. We shall do oiir best to
get him ojBf."
" But do you think you will succeed? " .
" I hope so, sir, but the law's a quare thing, and
the evidence is rather ugly. It's unlucky that the
prisoner and the murdered man came to words be-
fore the deed was done, and on the other hand it's
lucky that the young lady sticks to it that the
prisoner is innocent. We'll work that for all it's
worth, never fear! Our leading counsel, Mr.
Docherty, would make a pig cry when he touches
the sentimental stop, let alone a jury ! "
"You are aware," I said, "that the prosecution
has subpoenaed Father Anthony, the prisoner's
brother? "
"Yes," replied Mr. O'Flannigan, "but I've seen
the priest's depositions and they can do no harm,
for when he's cross-examined we shall be able, I
think, to show that the prisoner was too fond of the
daughter to raise his hand against the father."
FATHER ANTHONY 123
I hesitated, and looked quietly in the lawyer's
face.
"Honestly, now, what is your opinion of the
case?"
The little man raised his hands in stupefaction.
"My opinion? I have no opinion. I take the
evidence and I sift it for what it's worth. I think
it's a bad case, and I think it's a good case. It's a
toss-up, sir, and all I ask is that luck will send us a
good-timpered judge and a tinder-hearted jury ! "
I wished Mr. O'Flannigan good day, and hastened
back to the gaol, determined, if possible, to have a
few private words with the prisoner. After some
little hesitation my request was granted, my excuse
being that I had a communication to make from the
prisoner's solicitor.
When I entered the cell where the young fellow
was lodged, I was shocked at the change in his ex-
pression. All the light and brightness I had seen
there in the morning had faded from his face, and
in their place I now saw a look of settled but quiet
despair.
He was sitting on the side of his truckle bed with
his midday meal standing untasted beside him.
When I entered he rose and asked me gently, but
wearily, what had brought me back. Seeing that I
hesitated, he asked quickly : —
"Miss Craig is not ill?"
"No," I replied, "she is waiting for me to take
124 FATHER ANTHONY
her home ; but I wished first to see you for a mo-
ment alone. It is quite true that your brother has
been summoned to give evidence against you."
I watched him keenly while I spoke, but his face
was a blank.
" You told me that before, sir," he said quietly.
" Then there is nothing whatever they can force
him to say ? "
"Nothing whatever, that I know."
"You ai-e sure he was not with you that night? *
"Quite sure."
" Excuse me for persisting ; but have you no idea
where he visited that night, when, as you say, he
was making sick calls away on the mountains ? "
"No, sir."
" Was it usual for him to be out and about so
late?"
" Quite usual. He was out all hours of the day
and night. You see," the young man added quietly,
" my brother was always a little strange after he was
ordained. I used to think sometimes that he wasn't
quite happy in his new life. He had strange fits
of depression, and once, I remember, I found him
crying like a child."
" On that particular night, before your arrest, did
anything in his appearance strike you? "
The young fellow reflected. Then, as if illumined
by a sudden memory, he exclaimed : —
" Yes, sir. He came in covered with mud as if
FATHER ANTHONY 126
he had been wandering over the open bog, and his
face was as wild as if he had seen a ghost. I asked
him where he had been, and he told me that he had
been visiting the sick and giving absolution. Then
when we were alone he wrung me by the hands and
said, * Oh, Michael, why did I ever become a priest
of God?'"
"Shortly after that you were arrested?"
" Yes, and when the peelers came to take me my
brother went on like a madman, and cried out that I
was innocent, and that he could prove it. But sure,
if that were true, I shouldn't be sitting here now! "
After a little more conversation I left him, feeling
in my own mind pretty well assured that if the priest
could not help me to find the guilty person I should
never lay my hands upon him.
CHAPTER XII
My interviews with the unfortunate man in prison
had had at least one effect — they had convinced me
(in spite of the overwhehning evidence against him)
that he was innocent. When I said as much to
Eileen, and begged her, as I did, to forgive me for
having had so little faith previously in her womanly
instinct, she was grateful beyond measure, and the
load of her grief seemed greatly lightened.
"From this moment,'* I said, "I'm with you heart
and soul, and what I attempted at first out of mere
sympathy shall be done henceforth under absolute
conviction. You must keep up your strength. Miss
Craig, for we shall need it all ! There's time yet to
save your friend, and with God's help he may soon
be a free man."
Driving back to Mylrea together we discussed the
chances with lighter hearts, since now, for the first
time during our acquaintance, we were equally en-
thusiastic. When we parted at the Castle door, and
we shook hands like sworn comrades, her pale, suf-
fering face looked almost bright and hopeful, for the
first time since our meeting.
On one point I had thought it better to keep
silence, since it might be a clue to the truth, and on
FATHER ANTHONY 127
the other hand might lead to nothing ; and this point
was the unwillingness of Anthony Creenan to testify
publicly on behalf of his brother. What Michael
had hinted to me seemed, to say the least of it,
curious. Why should the priest have been so loud
in asserting his brother's innocence, and why should
the summons to testify it have filled him with such
despairing terror? What was he himself doing on
the night of the murder, and what was the real
cause of his singtdar agitation ? These were ques-
tions which I had determined to answer for myself
at the first opportunity.
At daybreak next morning I was on the car driv-
ing towards the solitary abode of the Creenans. On
my arrival there I ascertained to my surprise that
Father Anthony was up and sitting in his bedroom,
where indeed I found him, leaning back in an arm-
chair near the window reading his breviary. The
moment I entered the room he smiled faintly and
reached out his hand for mine.
I drew a chair beside his and placed my fingers
on his pulse, while he watched me quietly with his
large black eyes. I was struck more and more by
his almost child-like expression. The dark eyes
were large and soft, like a woman's, the lips full
and sensitive, and the whole face almost femiaine
in its sensuous beauty.
"You are all right now," I said, "but you should
not have left your bed."
128 FATHER ANTHONY
"Sure, I'm better up and about," he replied in a
low, musical voice; "and here close to the window
I can feel the light on me, and I can see the sunset
on the mountains."
Then, after thanking me in his mother's name and
his own for my attention, he sat gazing out of the
window with his eyes averted from mine, a little
nervously, I thought, as if he dreaded further con-
versation.
"Do you know, Father Anthony," I said cheer-
fully, "that I've taken up my quarters in your old
room at Mylrea? Very comfortable quarters they
are, I assure you. And that reminds me," I added,
" you left something behind you which I'm sure you
will be glad to possess again."
So saying, I produced the book of Irish songs
which I had found in the room at Mylrea. I had
my object in returning it personally to its owner,
but I was surprised to see the effect which the sight
of the book had upon him. His eyes dilated, his
under lip quivered, and he drew back, waving the
book from him with a white and trembling hand.
"It is yours, is it not? " I asked. "Of course it
is, for your name is written here upon the fly-leaf."
For some minutes he did not reply; but I saw his
lip still quivering, and at last he said, in a low
voice : —
"Thank you, doctor. Yes, the book is mine.
Will you kindly place it down on the table? "
FATHER ANTHONY 129
I did so, and then returned to my seat at his side.
"When he spoke again his eyes were resting wistfully
on the book.
"It was a gift to me many years ago," he said;
**but when I left it in the cottage I did not expect
to receive it again. Sure, it's a book of heathen
songs, and there's only one book, maybe, a priest
should read."
He raised his right hand and showed the breviary.
''But since Miss Eileen gave it to you? "
Again I thought his eyes dilated and his lips
quivered, but I could not see his face well, as it
was partially turned away. Not a word more was
said, but he opened, his breviary, glanced at it, and
then closed it with a deep sigh.
"Are you strong enough," I said, "to talk to me
on another subject? I have been to the prison at
Castlebar, and I have had a long talk with your
brother."
This time there was no nervousness, no hesitation.
He turned round quickly, looked eagerly into my
face, and cried: —
"You've seen Michael? Spoken to him? How
is he? What did he say to you? Did he send any
message to me?"
"He sent you his loving blessing," I replied.
"He w£is wondering why you had not been to see
him, but I explained that you had been ill, and he
was satisfied."
9
130 FATHER ANTHOl^
"God in heaven bless him," cried the young priest
fervently, looking upward.
"I did not go alone to the prison," I proceeded,
still watching him intently. ** Miss Craig was with
me. She, like yourself, is thoroughly convinced
that your brother is innocent of causing her father's
death."
I waited for him to speak, but he was silent, and
I saw that he was trembling from head to foot.
"You, of course, believe him innocent? "
The reply came at once, and in broken accents : —
" I know he is ! "
" Unfortunately, however, the case is very black
against him. Unless we can discover the person
who is really guilty, your brother is certain to be
condemned."
It was cruel of me, I suppose ; but I had my ob-
ject in causing the yoxmg priest the torture which
he was obviously enduring. If he was concealing
anything, he might be urged to speak. He sat as
if spellbound, gazing out through the window on the
dreary prospect of mountain and moor. Suddenly
he uttered a cry, and said in a voice choked with
tears: —
" God will help him ! God will never let them
harm an innocent man ! "
"But can you do nothing?" I asked quickly.
"Eemember your brother's life is at stake! You
say you know he is innocent."
FATHER ANTHONY 131
"I know it, and God knows it! "
"But can you prove it? That is the question.
Do you know anything which might throw light into
the darkness, and help us to find the guilty person? "
"I know nothing, I can say nothing," he replied;
and with tears streaming down his cheeks he added,
as if to himself, "My God! My God! "
But I persisted.
"It is unfortunate, very unfortunate. When you
are called upon to testify on your brother's be-
half '^
" I have testified on the depositions. I can say
no more."
"You have not even any suspicion as to the truth?
K that is so, how can you say that you know your
brother is innocent? "
"I do know it," was again the reply.
"But how?"
The priest rose to his feet, supporting himself with
his two trembling hands ; then he stood erect, crossed
himself, and looked me in the face.
"God will preserve my brother," he said solemnly.
" God also has taught me my duty, sir, and I shall
do as He wills ! "
I saw at once that further cross-questioning was
useless. For some reason or other, which I had not
yet fathomed. Father Anthony was unable or unwill-
ing to reveal all he knew. Utterly perplexed and
puzzled I prepared to take my leave.
132 FATHER ANTHONY
" You will see your brother as soon as possible ? *
I asked, after giving the invalid a few general direc-
tions to be observed during his convalescence, and
promising to send him some strengthening medicine
" Perhaps," he replied vacantly. " I do not know. "
Here was fresh cause for astonishment. Instead
of being eager to rush to a meeting with one so dear-
ly beloved, he gave me the impression that he wished
to avoid an interview. He saw the surprise in my
face, and added with a strange look in his dark
eyes : —
" Yes, I shall go to him, but not yet — not yet ! "
So saying he took my hand in his, pressing it be-
tween his wasted fingers, and bade me farewell. As
I left the room I glanced back and saw him stand-
ing like a spectre gazing after me.
As I drove home through the dreary moorland I
tried to piece the puzzle in vain; the whole conduct
and manner of the young priest seemed inscrutable ;
but the more I considered it the more convinced I
became that he, and he alone, held the clue which
we were seeking.
More than once again I yielded to the suspicion
that some motive not wholly good or noble might
underlie his apparent affliction and hesitation to
move actively in his brother's defence. It was a
horrible idea, but I could not altogether shake it
away.
Was it possible, I asked myself, that he had never
FATHER ANTHONY 133
quite forgiven Michael for coming between him and
Eileen Craig and so driving him into the cold arms
of the Church? Had the priest's conduct through-
out been as magnanimous as was supposed, or, on
the contrary, was he after all not the friend of his
brother, but his secret enemy?
I dismissed the thought as unworthy, but I could
not help remembering what I had seen with mg^own
eyes — Father Anthony's agitation when I returned
him the book of verse, Eileen's gift, and his shrink-
ing away from it as from something almost hateful.
I went over to Craig Castle that evening and in
the course of conversation with Miss Craig men-
tioned that I had been to see the priest, and that I
had only succeeded in discovering that he knew of
no circumstance which might tend to prove his
brother's innocence. I gathered at once from the
dear girl's manner that she had not the slightest
suspicion of the truth — that Anthony had ever con-
ceived that hopeless passion for herself.
"I should have spoken to Father Anthony long
ago," she said, "but after all that had happened I
felt afraid; and then you know he was taken ill.
Don't you think that he might help us? He knows
the country so well and all the people. A priest has
sources of information which are closed to others."
"I think he might help us," I replied, "if you
asked him."
"If /asked him?" she repeated in amazement.
134 FATHER ANTHONY
" Surely he would need no asking from me or any
one, if he could save his brother's life? "
" One would think not. But, frankly. Miss Craig,
I believe he is hiding something from us — some-
thing which he is afraid or unwilling to reveal."
Her wonder seemed to increase when I inquired : —
" You are sure he has never had any disagreement
with his brother? *
" Oh, quite sure. Their love for each other has
been the talk of every one. Even when they were
little children Michael adored Anthony, and An-
thony, I believe, would have died for Michael."
Still a little sceptical and unconvinced, but pre-
tending to acquiesce, I proposed that she should
drive over with me the next day, and add her en-
treaties to mine that the priest should move actively
and at once in his brother's defence. I knew that I
should subject the young man to another cruel or-
deal, but I was in hopes that the result might help
me to dispel the mystery. Miss Craig offered no
objection, and on the afternoon of the next day we
stood together at the door of the lonely house, in-
quiring for Father Anthony.
To my amazement Mrs. Creenan, who met us on
the threshold, told us that her son had left the house
several hours before, to make some sick calls among
the hills. She had tried to dissuade him from going
out, for it was raining fast, but he only gave "a
strange kind of a laugh," she said, and rushed away.
FATHER ANTHONY 135
*Sure the fever is on him still," she moaned, "and
he'll maybe get his death. "
"I hope not," I said. "No doubt he'll return
soon, and with your permission we will wait for
him."
The meeting between the poor woman and Eileen
was a little constrained on both sides, but before
long the natural charm of the young girl had con-
quered, and the two were sitting side by side talk-
ing of the unhappy youth in prison.
" God bless you for standing by him, and believing
in him. Miss Eileen ! " said Mrs. Creenan. " You
were the light of his eyes and the pulse of his heart."
While they mingled their tears together I left the
sitting-room and stole up to the little bedroom where
I had seen Father Anthony on the previous day.
The first thing that met my gaze as I entered was
the book of songs lying on the table close to the
arm-chair. I took it up and it opened at once at
the pages between which lay the pressed shamrocks
and withered rose. I felt certain that the priest
had been reading it before he went forth.
I walked to the window and looked out on the
lonely meadows surrounding the house and on the
dreary prospect blurred with mist and rain. As I
did so I saw a black figure in the distance walking
rapidly towards the house. I recognised it in a
moment — it was Father Anthony returning home.
I hastened downstairs and stood on the threshold
136 FATHER ANTHONY
to receive him. In a few moments he came up
panting, and never shall I forget the gruesome spec-
tacle that he presented.
His black soutane was soaked with rain, his
broad-brimmed clerical hat was shapeless and drip-
ping, the mud of the bog covered him to the knees
and was splashed all over him, but his face was still
ghastly pale and his eyes were full of feverish light.
He ran up the steps, and on entering the house
staggered and would have fallen if I had not caught
him in my arms.
"You must be mad," I cried, "to venture out in
such weather. Where have you been? "
He forced a laugh, and released himself from my
arms.
"I could not remain at home," he replied. "It
was stifling in the house, and I went for a walk
across the mountain."
As he spoke he trembled, and drew back as if he
had received a blow. Eileen stood in the hall look-
ing at him in amazement.
As she came up offering her hand, his eyes fell,
and he trembled violently.
"I am so sorry you have been ill," she said.
He did not reply.
"Come," I said, "I must exercise a doctor's au-
thority and order you to change your clothes at
once. I want to talk to you, and so does Miss
Craig."
FATHBR ANTHONY 137
Still not raising his eyes, he answered in a low,
starange, far-away voice : —
"Not to-night; no, not to-night. I'm not well, I
wish to be alone.*
I looked at Eileen, whose eyes were fixed upon
the young priest in strange, wistful pity.
"Father Anthony," she said, and placed her hand
softly on his arm.
He shook like a leaf at the touch, and his agita-
tion increased; then to my astonishment he ran
forward, and clutching the banisters fled swiftly up-
stairs, but before he reached the lobby above he
looked round, cast one look downward, and uttered
a mournful cry like the cry of a death-struck bird.
"Sure, it's mad he is, indeed,* said Mrs. Creenan.
"Will ye go after him, sir, and see that he comes to
no harm? "
I obeyed her at once, and hastened upstairs to the
priest's bedroom, only to find the door locked in my
face.
I knocked. There was no answer.
"Father Anthony!" I cried, and knocked again
and again.
At last a voice answered me : —
"Who's there?"
"It is I — Dr. Sutherland. I must speak to you."
There was another pause. Then the priest's voice
cried again : —
"Are you alone?"
138 FATHER ANTHONY
"Yes, I am alone.*
The key turned in the lock and the door opened.
I entered, and in a moment the door was locked
behind me. Father Anthony stood looking at me
like a hunted animal. He had thrown o£f his coat
and vest, and stood in his shirt-sleeves, with the
black priest's stock, dripping with wet, hanging
limply from his neck.
"What is it that you want?" he cried wildly.
"Why do you torture me? "
I answered him soothingly, and explained that my
only anxiety was about his state of health, and
ordered him to get to bed as soon as possible.
"As for the errand which brought us here," I said,
" I suppose that must wait. I'll ask Miss Craig to
come over another time."
" No, no ! " he exclaimed. " She must not come
again. I cannot speak to her. I dare not! I will
not!"
Here his voice failed him, and throwing himself
in the arm-chair he hid his face in his hands.
Seeing that it was useless to persist, I placed my
hand gently on his shoulder and wished him good-
night.
"Good- night," he replied in a hollow voice, not
looking up.
I left the room, and the moment I had done so I
heard him spring up and lock the door. Thoroughly
startled and mystified, I rejoined the two women
FATHBR ANTHONY 139
downstairs, but in answer to their eager inquiries
only informed them that Father Anthony had
suffered no serious harm and would possibly be all
right in the morning. Then I drove Miss Craig
back to Mylrea. It was a stormy drive, and we
spoke little during the journey, she appearing to be
plunged in thought and I thinking it better to keep
my own counsel as to what I had seen and heard.
CHAPTER Xm
On the 4th of November the annual cattle fair is
held at Kilsyth, and as this same fair is a curious
national function, at which all the local world and
his wife are expected to be present, I determined to
drive over on the car. I gave instructions to Andy
accordingly, and ordered him to be ready early in
the morning.
" Sure, there's not much to see at the fair, your
honour," said Andy apologetically, "and Kilsyth is a
poor place, but if you'll bring the gun wid ye, and
let the dogs range along the bog, we might pick up a
snipe or maybe a wild goose on the road."
Early next morning the car was brought round to
the door, I leapt on it, carrying my gun under my
arm, while my two dogs — a setter and a. greyhound
which I had purchased in the neighbourhood — pre-
pared to follow.
Nearly a week had passed since I had paid that
visit to the gaol. The time of the trial was draw-
ing near, and absolutely nothing had been done to
help the prisoner. Day by day the despair had
deepened in Eileen's eyes as she read the look of
utter helplessness in mine. I had paid two more
FATHER ANTHONY 141
visits to the young priest, and after each visit my
perplexity had increased. The first time I had
found him again in bed propped up by pillows, too
weak to talk, and suffering from a hacking cough.
On my second visit, however, the day previous to
my departure for the fair, he had suddenly gained
strength, and was seated in his study surrounded by
the emblems of his faith. I had taken the oppor-
tunity of examining him thoroughly, and I had
found, not a little to my alarm, that the cold conse-
quent on his exposure had touched his lungs, and
that he was in a condition of low fever. I had or-
dered him to bed at once, and he had promised to
obey me.
On leaving him, I had felt more perplexed than
ever; for when I had touched again on the subject
of the murder I saw the look of agony distort his
face, and he almost commanded me to be silent.
But when I spoke of his brother's approaching trial
he rose from his seat and solemnly made the sign of
the cross. " God help me to keep my faith ! " he
said, raising his eyes to heaven. Then, reaching
his trembling hand towards me, he implored me,
with feverish eagerness, to continue my search for
the murderer, and to save his brother's life.
I was thinking of all these things while Andy
drove rapidly towards Kilsyth.
It was a cheerless winter day. The bogs on every
side of us looked black and sullen beneath a lowering
142 FATHER ANTHONY
sky, but, despite the inclemency of the weather, every-
body seemed astir; indeed, it seemed to me that the
whole of the population of Mylrea was streaming tow-
ards the fair. From the earliest hours of the morning
I had heard them passing my bedroom window, rend-
ing the air with their shouts and cries as they drove
their unwilling cattle along the road; and still the
stream was flowing on — the girls and old women —
some of them in mule carts, others on foot driving
before them their donkeys loaded with poultry,
butter and eggs, and eager to realise in open
market the rent which would soon become due.
They looked at us as we drove past, some of the
pretty girls giving us a bright smile and a " Good
day, your honour, ** while a few of the men scowled
and made no sign; but for each and all of them
Andy had a bright word, as he laughingly cracked
his whip to send the stragglers out of his road.
Meantime the dogs, at a word from me, were
ranging the open moor. Now and again the setter
would find a snipe not far from the road, and wait
patiently while I descended to cross over to him and
take the shot. I picked up a bird or two in this
way, and the greyhound put up two hares, one of
which, after a smart chase, he managed to secure.
Once a great flock of wild geese passed, fluttering
and screaming close over the car, and alighted on.
the bog close to the roadside. A small sparrow-
hawk was pursuing them, but turned away on per-
144 FATHER ANTHONY
clotted with mud. From the somewhat wandering
light in his black eyes I judged he had had more
than a nodding acquaintance with the whisky bot-
tle, but his rubicund face was beaming with good
humour, and he appeared to be very glad to see
me.
"You've saved my poor boy, doctor,* said he,
"and I thank ye. Will you come and have a
shnifter? "
I accepted his invitation, and we strolled together
towards the inn. When we reached it we found the
place besieged, the rooms full and flowing over, and
a goodly crowd gathering before the door. The
moment the priest made his appearance he was wel-
comed by one and all; even the drunkenest and
most ragged of the merrymakers conjured up a smile
and a "good day " for his reverence, and for the first
time I understood why, though Father John was not
averse to applying his stick to the back of a refrac-
toiy parishioner, he was so popular among his peo-
pie. He was hail-fellow-well-met with all and sun-
dry, and he placed on an equal footing with himself
the most poverty-stricken of his flock. In one of
the rooms of the inn sat an agent waiting for his
wretched tenants to come and pay their rent.
There were many there who could not or would not
pay, and had it not been for the mediation of Father
John they would have been turned out to starve by
the roadside ; but the priest spoke up for them, even
FATHER ANTHONY 145
while he gave them a little abuse, and with a ** God
Almighty bless your reverence," they went on their
way rejoicing.
We had had our " shnif ter " (the local term for a
glass of raw spirits), and were about to leave the inn
when there entered the room a person whom the
priest welcomed with a curious smile. He was a
coarse-featured, red-faced man, short and thick set;
he wore a grey riding coat and breeches, both of
which were liberally bespattered with mud, and car-
ried a hunting-whip.
He nodded familiarly to the priest.
"Grood day. Father John,** said he, in a thick,
husky voice. " Sure, you're the very man I wanted
to see. I'm just afther buying a mare from that
blackguard Eory Bournes, and I would like to show
her to you. Will ye come down to my house?
But first, will ye have one? "
Whether by this mysterious invitation to "have
one " he meant a house or a mare I couldn't tell, but
Father John, who seemed to comprehend his mixed
phraseology, and who seemed to be immensely
tickled at something, replied that he would "have
one," whereupon the stranger called for "two glasses
of Jameson."
"Three," put in the priest; "and mind, Katie,
mavoumeen, that the third is a good one, for 'tis to
be drunk by a gentleman who is a stranger to the
country." Then, turning to me, he added with a
10
146 FATHER ANTHONY
prodigious wink : '* Begad, sir, I think 1*11 introduce
ye!"
Before I could say a word either of approval or
disapproval he laid his little plump hand on my
shoulder and added with an air of comic pom-
posity : —
" Let me present to you. Mulligan, a man that's
worth a dozen of you. Englishman though he is!
Mulligan, you thief, this is Dr. Sutherland ! "
Mulligan! So this was my rival — the local
^sculapius who had sworn to have my life.
Highly amused at the encoimter, I held out my
hand and said pleasantly enough : —
"How are you, Dr. Mulligan? I am very glad to
meet you."
But Mulligan didn't seem inclined to respond.
He gazed feebly at my extended hand, but made no
attempt to take it; whereupon the priest interposed,
and in less than five minutes my sworn enemy was
hanging upon my neck and swearing eternal friend-
ship.
Both the priest and the doctor had partaken of
the national fluid pretty freely when we left the inn
and walked away to the doctor's dwelling. By this
time the doctor had forgotten all about the mare, but
his friendship for me had increased to such an ex-
tent that he insisted on entertaining me to dinner.
The house where he lived was in a side street.
It was a queer, tumble-down sort of building, half
FATHER ANTHONY 147
stable, half house, and I soon found that the stable
half was the best cared for of the two, since the doc-
tor, who had originally been a veterinary surgeon,
had more love for the old profession than the new.
When he entered the door I thought he had led
us into the harness-room, for I could see nothing
but saddles, stirrups and bits, but presently from
this heterogeneous mass I picked out a wooden din-
ing-table and a few chairs. There was a good fire,
however, and the room looked fairly comfortable.
A shout from Mulligan produced a shock-headed
male servant, who immediately began to spread the
feast before us; cold chickens, knuckles of ham,
rolled beef and hard-boiled eggs were heaped upon
the table in profusion, ''more Hibemico,** and
though the plates and dishes were not too clean, and
the knives and forks were rusty and shaky, we
managed to make an excellent meal, with plenty of
whisky and water to wash it down.
Meanwhile the talk was merry, if not too intel-
lectual. Father John rattling away in his brightest
mood. At first I was somewhat astonished at the
extremely abusive nature of the priest's remarks to
his host, but as the latter took them with the ut-
most good nature, I soon got used to them. I after-
wards discovered that this was habitual, and that
though the priest entertained a warm friendship for
the leech, who was a capital companion in his cups,
he never addressed him in any but abusive language.
(
148 FATHER ANTHONY
and never spoke of him but as a thief and a
rogue. This, however, was entirely figurative and
Pickwickian, and implied neither dislike nor
malice.
The repast being over, and the necessary amount
of whisky disposed of, I rose, buttoned my coat, and
asked Father John if I could give him a lift home.
The worthy divine cast a yearning eye upon a bottle
which stood still unopened on the table, and Dr.
Mulligan noticing the look said gently: —
"Father John, there's a bed in my house that
you're right welcome to. The weather's cold, sir,
and, as your medical adviser, I say you'd better not
go out to-night."
"Do you think so, Mulligan? " said Father John,
becoming polite for the first time.
"I do, indeed. Father John," replied the doctor
firmly.
"Were you thinking of going out yourself. Dr.
Mulligan? " asked the priest with a twinkle in his
eye. " If so, as your spiritual adviser, sir, I forbid
ye ! You're safer in your own house, and by that
token I'll keep you company."
The invitation to remain was thereupon extended
to me, but I laughingly refused. Andy was waiting
for me at the inn, I said, and I must depart. Then,
seeing that Father John and the doctor had made
up their minds to make the night merry, I took my
leave amid many expressions of regret and a heartily
FATHER ANTHONY 149
expressed hope from the doctor that we should soon
meet again.
The hours had flown away, and when I again
reached the market-place I found that the sun had
set, and that gathering clouds and a shrill whistling
wind seemed to portend a dark and dreary drive
home. However, I thought little of this, having
every confidence of Andy's knowledge of the country
roads, and I was consequently in no hurry to get
away. Nevertheless, I hastened towards the inn,
and when I reached it found Andy at the door look-
ing for me somewhat anxiously. He seemed re-
lieved when I came up, and after he had heard
where I had been, was immensely amused.
"Sure, 'twas Mulligan that swore to have your
honour's life," said he, ''but he's a quare man en-
tirely. Will ye step inside, sir, while I put to the
baste? . . . Now, then, Rory Bournes," he added,
"where are you pushing? Can't ye stand out of the
way for the gintleman to pass? "
The latter part of the speech was addressed to a
man who stood leaning against ^ne of the door-posts
and barring the entrance to the house. I glanced
at him, and was about to pass when the lowering
expression in his eyes, which were fixed fiercely on
mine, made me pause and look again.
He was a short, thick-set, bearded man, very
squarely and powerfully built, with a coarse, evil-
looking face, and a savage, almost blustering, man-
i
150 FATHER ANTHONY
ner. His dress was that of an ordinary yeoman or
small farmer — a swallow-tail coat, knee-breeches,
rough boots, and a wideawake hat. A dirty-looking
red handkerchief was tied round his bare throat, and
under it was a coarse linen shirt without a collar.
Looking at him a second time I saw that the cu-
rious expression in his bloodshot eyes was partly the
result of an overdose of whisky; indeed, he was
hopelessly drunk.
"I should advise you to get home, my man," I
said. " You are not in a fit condition to be about. "
He made no answer, but drew himself closer to
the door-post in order to let me pass. I entered the
inn, while Andy went round to the stables to get the
car.
I had not been many minutes in the room when
certain wild sounds told me that a free fight had be-
gun outside. Shrieks and yells filled the air, and
increased to such an extent that at last I went to
the door to see what was happening. By the time
I appeared, however, the fray was practically over,
and a crowd had gathered round a man who lay
insensible on the ground. Pushing my way through
the throng, I took a look at the vanquished one.
It was the man I had seen standing hopelessly
drunk in the doorway.
CHAPTEE XIV
At first I made no attempt to go near him ; then,
seeing that he lay quite still, I pushed my way
towards him, bent over him, and found that he was
quite insensible.
I called for some whisky and poured it down his
throat; loosening the neckcloth, which was thickly
knotted around his neck, and kneeling by him, I
rested his head on my knee. He opened his eyes,
gazed round with a stupefied look, and made a sud-
den effort to stagger to his feet, but directly he got
upon his legs he nearly fell again. Then I saw to
my surprise that blood was streaming down his
right arm and soaking his shirt-sleeve.
"Make way,** I said, addressing the crowd which
was pressing uncomfortably upon us. "Hold him
up, some of you, and get him into the house. He
is wounded, and wants attending to."
In a moment he was seized, carried into the inn
parlour and placed upon a sofa, while many of the
crowd gathered in the doorway and stood gazing
into the room.
"Clear out, all of you,** I cried. "Give the man
air."
162 FATHER ANTHONY
Murmuring and muttering the crowd retired and I
closed the door, leaving in the room only the land-
lord and one or two men who were drinking at the
tables. The man's eyes had closed again, and he
lay perfectly still. I ripped up the coat-sleeve
which covered his right arm, but the member was
so bespattered with mud and dirt that at first I could
make nothing of it. Calling for a basin of warm
water, I sponged the arm, and then I saw that the
wound was not a new but an old one — some weeks
old at least. It was a deep and dangerous stab in
the fleshy part of the arm, severing one of the main
arteries. Having been imperfectly bound up, the
artery had burst open again. Fortunately I had my
instruments in my pocket, and with the aid of some
linen I managed, not without difl&culty, to stop the
bleeding and dress the wound.
" Does anybody know who he is ? * I asked.
"Sure we all do, your honour," said Andy, who,
having left his horse and car at the door, had come
in to assist me. " He's one Eory Bournes, and lives
on the moimtain beyant, between Kilsyth and Myl-
rea."
"What's he doing here? "
"Sure, he came in to the fair, sor. He sold a
mare to Dr. Mulligan, and got drunk on the money."
"How did he come by this woimd? *
" The Lord knows, your honour. He's a bad fel-
ler, and will always be quarrelling and fighting when
FATHER ANTHONY 153
the drink's in him. 'Tis not many weeks since he
came out of gaol, your honour."
" Well, what's to be done with him? "
" Just put him on the road, your honour. He'll
soon recover when he finds hisself alone, and some
of the boys will give him a lift home."
By this time the man had again regained con-
sciousness, and was staring stupidly from Andy to
me. Taking hold of his left arm, I helped him to
his legs, but they were still powerless to support
him. He staggered and fell back again on the sofa,
muttering an oath between his teeth, and giving me
a savage glare.
"It is quite evident," I said, *'that he can't help
himself, and, ruffian as he looks, I can't leave him
like this. Do you know the place where he
lives?"
** I do, your honour. Sure we pass close to it on
the way home."
"Then put him into the car," I said. "We will
take him with us."
To this suggestion Andy strongly demurred.
"Sure he's a bom blackguard and not worth
troubling about," he said; but as nobody else seemed
to take the least interest in the man, I overruled all
objections and had him lifted into the car. As he
was either too drunk or too weak to sit upright, I
placed him beside me, supporting him on the left
hand seat, while Andy placed himself on the right
154 FATHBB ANTHONY
side to drive. Thus we took our departure from the
inn and started on our homeward journey.
The incident thus described had detained us so
long that by the time we started the night had com-
pletely fallen — and a very inclement night it was.
The rain fell faster and faster, with stormy gusts of
wind, and the darkness gathered around us like a
black shroud. Throwing a waterproof over the
shoulders of the stranger so as to partially protect
him from the storm, I had put on my ulster, lit my
pipe, and made myself as comfortable as possible
under the circumstances.
Although I was of temperate habits, I had taken
a little more whisky than was good for me that day,
and being somewhat drowsy, I suppose I must have
dozed off. How long I dozed I cannot tell, but we
must have left Kilsyth several miles behind us when
I was awakened by a jolt of the car, which nearly
dislodged the man I was escorting home. I gripped
him firmly and sat half asleep, listening to the
rumbling of the car-wheels as they scattered the
stones all round, and to Andy, who was beguiling
the dismal way with snatches of Irish song. We
had just passed a cluster of lonely cabins, and were
proceeding at a walking pace up a steep hill, when
there was a flash and a loud report. The horse
reared and started off at a gallop, and thrown from
my seat I found myself standing in complete dark-
ness in the middle of the road! In my sleepy state
FATHBB ANTHONY 155
I hardly knew what had happened; but I thought I
heard the sound of human voices, and the sound of
feet rushing away. I at once ran after the car,
which had been pulled up some forty yards off, and
found to my surprise that the wounded man had
kept his seat and was lying back in what seemed a
tipsy swoon.
"Jump up, yer honour," cried Andy excitedly,
and as soon as I had done so he lashed the horse and
sent it along at a gallop, never slackening speed until
we were a good mile away from the spot where I had
been dislodged. At last he turned to me with an
exclamation : —
" Saints above, that was a near shave ! "
"Somebody fired a gun," I said. "Do you think
the intention was to hit the car? "
" Sorra doubt, and them sitting on it, your honour^
Pd like to be at the funeral of him as done it. Is
he kilt entirely?"
" Killed ? Whom do you mean ? "
** That blackguard Eory. Sure he's got a taste of
the lead, and a good thing too, since if he hadn't
been on the car to-night 'tis on that same spot your
honour might have been sitting, and the shot would
have struck you instead of him ! "
Horrified and amazed I turned to the man and
found that what Andy said was true. If the shot
had been intended for me it had missed its mark,
and the unfortunate wretch in my company had
156 FATHER ANTHONY
been struck in the right shoulder. At first I
thought he was killed, for he lay on his back and
hardly seemed to breathe, but I thrust my hand un-
der his ragged shirt and found that his heart was
beating. As it was impossible to discover at once
the extent of his injuries, the only thing to be done
was to produce my flask, pour a little spirit down
his throat, and order Andy to hasten with all possi-
ble speed to the wretched man's home.
"Sure it's there beyant," said Andy, pointing to a
light in the darkness.
"Hurry, tten,** I cried ; and as he drove on I asked
myself the meaning of what had happened. That
the car had been fired at-w««.»certain; the only ques-
tion was with what object-^and by whom? The
shot could scarcely, I thought, be intended for my-
seH, for I was not aware of having any enemies. The
man in my company, however, was a notorious bad
character, and possibly his life had been aimed at.
While I was thus speculating Andy turned off the
main road into a narrow, deep-rutted lane, and after
jolting along for some distance entered a stone-paved
yard and paused before the door of a farmhouse — or
such it seemed, for it was surrounded by sheds and
outbuildings, and close to it were several stacks of
hay.
"Here we are, your honour, ** said Andy, and
throwing the reins on the horse's back, he jumped
from the car while I remained in my seat, support-
FATHER ANTHONY 157
ing the wounded man. Andy rapped sharply on the
door with the butt-end of his whip. Almost imme-
diately the door was slowly and cautiously opened,
and there stood upon the threshold a woman wear-
ing a petticoat and short gown, and holding a lighted
lantern high above her head.
"Is that you, Rory? " she said, peering forth into
the darkness.
"It's Eory, sure enough, ** growled Andy.
''Hould a light here, woman, while we bring him
in, for sure he's nearly kilt."
Without the slightest sign of astonishment, the
woman stepped forward, still holding the lighted
lantern on high, while Andy and I lifted the heavy
form of the man from the car and bore it into the
house. The street door opened right into a sort of
rude kitchen, in the comer of which was a recess
bed. Placing my charge on the bed I hastened to
ascertain the extent of the damage which had been
done.
I found to my relief that the injury he had re-
ceived was comparatively trifling, but unfortunately
it was in the arm already wounded. The gun had
been loaded with what is known as No. 1 shot, but
luckily it had been fired from some distance, and
had, therefore, had time to scatter. Only a few
stray pellets had struck the flesh. Nevertheless
the man had fainted from loss of blood.
I at once set to work to dress the wound and to
i
158 FATHER ANTHONY
restore Bournes to consciousness. The latter was a
work of time and some difficulty, but at last he
opened his eyes. They fixed themselves, not upon
me, but upon the woman who stood by my side.
It now struck me as curious that, although she
had been assiduous in getting me everj'thing I asked
for, she had not spoken a single word. Turning
to look at her more closely, I recognised the girl
who had questioned myself and Father John about
Michael Creenan and who had afterwards ridden
with me on my car. I saw now that she was re-
markably handsome. She had the large grey -brown
eyes and black lashes so common among the Irish
Celts, a low broad forehead, somewhat coarse lips,
and she held her head erect with an expression al-
most defiant. Her most remarkable peculiarity was
her hair, which fell loose, in masses of rich dark
chestnut curls, on to her shoulders. Her throat
was white and elegantly shaped, her hands and feet
small, her whole appearance, although the dress she
wore was of the commonest material, that of a per-
son superior to the ordinary peasant.
My close scrutiny attracted her attention; she
turned her dark eyes full upon me and gave me an
angry stare.
"Is he your husband? " I asked.
"He is not," she returned; then she moved away
as if to avoid being further questioned, sat herself
down on a stool by the hearth, and rested her chin
FATHER ANTHONY 159
upon her hands. I noticed, however, that she
glanced from time to time with a curious expression
at the wounded man on the bed. He for his part
neither moved nor spoke, but his eyes sought hers,
and I saw that he was quite conscious.
Meantime I had set to work to extract the shots
and to dress the wound. It was a nasty operation,
but my patient bore it without flinching. Once, in-
deed, he tried to push away my hands, exclaiming
as he did so: "In the name of God, why can't you
let a man die ! " but finding that I was determined
to do my best to save him he submitted sullenly
until my work was done. As for the girl she made
no attempt to interrupt us. It was Andy who aided
me this time, and when all was over and I was ready
to go, I looked for her. She was still seated by the
fire in the same attitude of sullen indifference.
"He is badly hurt,** I said, "but with a little
trouble and some patience you'll pull liim through."
As I spoke I watched the girl's face, and was
amazed to see the look of indifference change to one
of sullen disappointment.
"Is there any one here who can nurse him?" I
asked.
She rose to her feet, and with a wild toss of her
head shook back her hair.
"Sure it's myself that'll do that same," she said,
coming defiantly forward.
At that moment the expression of her face was so
160 FATHER ANTHONY
forbidding that I hesitated about leaving the man in
her chaige. As nothing else could be done, how-
ever, I gave her instructions as to her duties, and,
promising to call again some time next day, wished
her good-night.
" Good-night, ** she replied, sullenly enough.
I hesitated, and looked at her again.
" I forgot to ask you how he got that wound. I
don't mean the shot- wound, but the other. It must
have been done with a sharp instrument of some
sort.**
"Sure enough," she answered.
"Was it a knife?"
"Maybe," was the reply, "He got no more than
he deserved, for he's ever quarrelling and fighting
like a wild baste."
I glanced at the man. He had dragged himself
up on the bed, and was gazing wildly and almost
imploringly at the girl as if begging her to be silent.
There was little love and no pity in the look that
answered his. If he was a wild beast she seemed
nearly akin to the same species. With all her
beauty she had too much of the wildcat in her to
suit my taste.
I left the place, mounted the car, and drove home-
ward through the night.
" Well, Andy, and who is the curious colleen?"
I asked, as we passed along the dark road. Andy
laughed.
FATHER ANTHONY 161
**Sure, she's own sister to that blackguard/ was
the reply, "and though she's a handsome-looking col-
leen enough, sure she's as big a blackguard as he is
hisself."
" There seems to be no love lost between them, at
any rate. I should think from her manner that she
was almost sorry that her brother returned alive? "
Andy answered the question with another.
"Does your honour think that same?" said he.
''Well, well, the ways of women is quare, sure
enough."
"Do they live alone?"
"They do, sor — all alone."
"They seem to be very poor."
" They are that, sor, but they were well-to-do once,
and the colleen had good schooling. Then Rory took
to drink, and wasted his own fortune and hers.
Sure, I've heard tell there's been times when they've
been well-nigh starving."
" Poor girl, I must speak to Miss Craig about her
and see if something can't be done to help her."
"Your honour," said Andy anxiously, "maybe
'twould be better not to do that same."
"Why not?"
" Sure, then, it's this way. When that blackguard
Eory was in gaol last winter, didn't Miss Eileen
(God bless her) go down to the farm herself with
food and money too, but Kathleen (bad cess to her)
shust took the food and the money and cast them
11
162 FATHER ANTHONY
on the road. ' Let them take your gifts that wants
them/ said she, and she put the curse on Miss
Eileen and drove her from the door! "
"But why did she do this? '
"Well, your honour, she's quare- tempered like
her brother. Maybe 'twas because Miss Eileen was
rich and she was poor; but sure there isn't another
soul in Mylrea that would do that same to the
young mistress."
CHAPTEK XV
I WAS breakfasting the next morning when Andy
sent in a message and said he wished to see me.
When he entered, hat in hand, I saw at once that
he was agitated, for his expression, usually so bright
and cheerful, was grave in the extreme, and he
closed the door mysteriously behind him.
"Your honour," he whispered, "may I spake to
ye?"
"Of course," I answered, with a laugh. "What
is it, Andy? Out with it. There's something
troubling you."
"There is, sor," he returned grimly.
"WeU? I'm listening."
"Will your honour be wanting the car to-day? "
"I don't think I shall; not this morning at any
rate, for I feel more inclined for walking. I'm go-
ing to look at my patients ; but my first visit will
be paid to the man you call Rory Bournes."
" Then if your honours going there alone, don't
you think 'twould be as well to have a peeler to go
along wid ye?"
"Go out guarded! " I exclaimed. "Parade about
the country with a policeman at my heels ! Why,
in the devil's name? "
164 FATHER ANTHONY
"Sure, your honour must know, thin,* said Andy
desperately, " that the shot that was fired last night
was never intinded for the blackguard that got it."
"Ah, you think it was meant for me / "
"I do indeed, sor.*
" What makes you think that?"
"Sure 'tis as clear as daylight, your honour," he
returned. " Didn't nearly every soul in Mylrea see
us drive to Kilsyth in the morning? "
"What then?"
"And didn't every mother's son of them think
'twas the same way we'd be driving back at night? "
"That would be the natural conclusion, certainly."
"And did one of them think that Eory himself
would be on the car? Sorra one. Well, your
honour, they just fired at the car, and they risked
hitting me, bad cess to them ; but 'twas not to kill
me they tried, though there was one of us they did
mane to kill or maybe to frighten out of the coun-
try."
"And that one you think was myself? "
"I'm sure of it, sor," cried Andy.
" Well, it's lucky for me that I overruled your
objection to taking that drunken blackguard, as you
call him, on the car, otherwise I might now be lying
in his place, and all chance of my discovering the
man who killed Mr. Craig would be at an end."
"It would indeed, sor," said Andy earnestly, "and
that's shust what they wanted."
FATHER ANTHONY 165
"You think SO?''
"They meant to serve you as they served that
thief Eory! And it's my belief, sor," he concluded,
lowering his voice to a husky whisper, " that them
as fired at the car last night is the blackguards that
murdered the master."
Having delivered himself of this astonishing piece
of information, Andy quitted the room, closing the
door softly behind him, and leaving me to my medi-
tations.
I lit my pipe to collect my thoughts, and the
more I did so, the more did I think it probable that
Andy was right. Some one, it was clear, had fired
at us with murderous intent, and that some one was
in all probability connected with the mystery which
I had been trying to unravel. So far everything
seemed clear enough. The question which now re-
mained was, how could I act? Call in the aid of
the police? No, I would not do that; not even, as
Andy suggested, for the sake of self-preservation.
To walk about followed eternally by a representative
of the law would be the act of a coward. I believed
myself to be no coward, and though I was not fool-
hardy, ordinary precautions were necessary, and I
meant to take them.
Opening my bag I took from it a small revolver,
which several years before had stood me in great
stead during my travels in the East. On leaving
London, full of the usual wild stories about Ireland,
{
166 FATHER ANTHONY
I had thought it wise to take the weapon with me.
It was only a toy, but it might be very useful in an
emergency. Having found my box of bullets, I
loaded the six barrels and placed the weapon in the
inner pocket of my coat; then I called upon Andy
to bring the box containing my instruments and
medicines, and to walk with me to the house of the
wounded man.
It was a good stifiF tramp, four or five Irish miles,
through as lonely a tract of moorland as is to be
found even in Ireland ; but the morning was fine, I
was young and strong, and I enjoyed the walk
thoroughly. On arriving at the lonely farm I found
the door shut, and my ears were instantly greeted by
the sound of angry voices proceeding from within.
After rapping loudly several times I was at last ad-
mitted, to find that the disputants were none other
than Kathleen Bournes and a ragged old man with a
pale, wrinkled face, straw-coloured hair, and watery
eyes, which gleamed like those of a ferret. He
held in his hands some dirty banknotes, and his
evil-looking eyes glanced uneasily from the face of
the sick man on the bed to that of his sister. Di-
rectly I entered she pointed imperiously to the door.
"Out of this, Anthony linney," cried the girl.
" It's like you to come and blackguard me, now that
my brother is sick."
Taking no notice whatever of her command, the
man turned cringingly to me, and pulling the fore-
VEBY UFE."
168 FATHER ANTHONY ^^ -^
Miss Craig for a bottle of port wine and some
brandy, and bring them here at once/
When Andy was gone I turned sternly to the girl.
"Who removed those bandages? * I asked.
She looked at me sullenly for a moment; then she
said slowly and deliberately, with a flash of fierce
defiance : —
"Suppose /did? Suppose I was to tell you that
though he is my own brother I want him to die? **
" If you told me that," I replied, " and if I believed
it, I should have you locked up in the police bar-
racks, and I should place some one here to nurse
your brother until he was strong enough to defend
himself against you.*
"You'd do that same, would ye? " she asked, with
a bitter laugh.
"I certainly should."
" Then the devil take you for an interfering fool ! "
she muttered between her set teeth. " Why in God's
name can't ye lave poor folk alone? Don't they
know their own business best? If it hadn't been
for you, Eory Bournes would have died on the road
last night."
"On the contrary," I said, "if it hadn't been for
him I myself should most probably have been killed.
The shot which struck him was intended for me — i
God only knows by whom it was fired — and since
he saved my life indirectly, I mean to make every
eflfort to save his ! " She looked at me in a puzzled
FATHER ANTHONY 169
way for a moment and then turned away, but I fol-
lowed her and put my hand upon her arm.
"You and I must come to an understanding/ I
said. "You must give me your word to play no
more tricks like that, or I shall at once put the
matter into the hands of the police." She was
silent.
"You had better make up your mind,* I con-
tinued. " If you give me your promise and keep it,
your* brother will probably get well; but play an-
other trick like this upon him, and my evidence
may get you hung for murder.*
Utterly indifferent to the threat she shrugged her
shoulders, and gave a hard, cruel laugh.
"I won't touch him," she said brutally. "Let
him live or die ! "
A few minutes later Andy returned with a basket
laden with soup, a bottle of wine and brandy. I
poured a little of the spirit down the man's throat,
aud gave the rest of the things into the care of his
sister, who, now that she read determination in my
face, promised to do all she could for her brother :
then, still accompanied by Andy, I left the house,
and went to the police barracks at Mylrea to inter-
view the sergeant of police.
The sergeant, a quiet, elderly man, listened phleg-
matically enough to my account of the attack on
the car, and did not appear to be the least surprised
that I had been shot at — a common enough occur-
170 FATHER ANTHONY
rence in those parts — the darkness had hidden my
assailants, and they had got off scot free — that was
aU.
After making a few notes the sergeant ordered the
police car to be got ready, and we drove ofif to the
spot where the outrage had occurred. Along the
roadside, close to the place where the car must have
been passing when the shot was fired, there was a
low stone wall, and behind the wall we found the
grass trampled by heavy feet. Presently the" ser-
geant stooped down and picked up a piece of burnt
newspaper which had been used as wadding. That
was the only trace of the outrage we could discover.
As we drove back to Mylrea the sergeant said : —
"I don't think Eory Bournes knows anything
about it, sir, for though he's a rogue and a black-
guard, he bore you no ill-will — and besides he was
on the car himself at the time. It's more likely
that the shot was fired by some enemy of his own ;
and if that's the case it hit the right man."
"But Andy here thinks the shot was meant for
me."
" I doubt it, but if you think so you can have
police protection."
This I of course refused, for I felt that I was quite
able to take care of myself. Neither to the sergeant
nor to Andy did I mention the fact of my little
six-shooter, which in future I intended to carry on
my person in readiness for all emergencies. "In a
FATHER ANTHONY 171
countiy where there are so many secrets," I reflected,
"it is as well to have a secret of one's own! "
Before many hours had passed the news that an
attempt had been made on my life had spread from
one end to the other of Mylrea. Just after sunset I
was seated in my little room in the widow's cottage
when the door flew open and in ran Father John,
breathless with indignation.
"Sure, we've a dirty set of blackguards about us,"
he cried, " but we'll drive them out of Ireland, and
by that token I mean to denounce them from the
altar itself ! "
Then, closing one eye as was his wont, he re-
garded me steadily with the other as he asked : —
" 'Tis not Mulligan you suspect of this job. Dr.
Sutherland ? "
My only answer was a shake of the head and a
hearty laugh, at which the worthy priest seemed
much relieved.
"Sure he's a bom blackguard," said he, "and be-
tween you and me, doctor, he's a dale too fond of
this," tapping a whisky bottle which stood upon
the table. "Drink's his ruin, sir; but for all that
he's a decent fellow, and would never play a rogue's
trick on a gentleman like yourself ! "
Cordially endorsing every one of Father John's
sentiments with regard to the doctor, I invited him
to sit down and partake of a little of the fluid which
he said had been the doctor's ruin. Nothing loath,
172 FATHER ANTHONY
he accepted the invitation, and was helping himself
from the bottle when the door of the room again
opened, and Miss Craig herself stood upon the
threshold. Her sudden appearance alarmed me, and
in a moment I was by her side.
''Is anything the matter? ** I asked. ''What has
happened?"
"Nothing, nothing,* she replied. "I have only
just heard the news of what took place last night.
I am so sorry ! What must you think of Ireland — of
us all?"
I took her hand and drew her into the room,
wliile Father John sprang up and patted her pater-
nally on the shoulder.
"Sit ye down, mavoumeen," he said, "and sure
Dr. Sutherland will tell us all about it,"
She did as he bade her, while I piled some more
turf on the fire, and then proceeded to narrate the
little there was to tell. After speaking of my ad-
ventures in the fair, and the incident of the wounded
man, I came to our drive home and the attack on
the car, of which I made as light as possible.
Then I described my visit to the house of Rory
Bournes, and the curious conduct of his sister, cul-
minating in the horrible incident of that morning,
when I found the bandages torn off the man's
wounds.
" Powers alive ! " cried the little priest, " I'll talk
to her!"
FATHER ANTHONY 173
I glanced at Eileen ; her face was very pale, and
she seemed greatly troubled.
" She is a strange girl," she said. ** I have thought
sometimes that she is not quite sane. And she said
that she wished her brother to die? *
"She certainly said so," I replied, "and she al-
most succeeded in disposing of him. However, I
warned her, and I think I brought her to her
senses."
When Eileen rose to go, I took up my hat and
stick and prepared to accompany her; but she
begged me to remain in the cottage.
"You are not going out to-night. Dr. Sutherland,"
she said. " Pray do not run into unnecessaiy dan-
ger. Father John will see me home."
The priest expressed himself willing to go
to the ends of the earth for her, but I adheied to
my intention with a firmness which could not be
shaken.
"I am going out at any rate," I said, "and I may
as well walk to Craig Castle as elsewhere. Never
fear for me. Miss Craig! Now that I am on my
guard the rascals will find I know how to protect
myself."
So after we had said good-night to the priest, and
I had expressed a hearty wish that he would come
soon to see me again, he went on his homeward
way, and I walked with Eileen towards the sea-
shore.
174 FATHER ANTHONY
During the walk very little was said, but Eileen
clung confidingly to my arm, and I was happy. It
was a fine starlight night. The lonely bog-land lay
black all around us, the moon shone down with
vitreous rays from a cloudless sky, and the silence of
the shore was broken only by the weary washing of
the sea.
When we reached her door she withdrew her
hand from my arm and reached it towards me.
"Good-night, Dr. Sutherland," she said softly.
"Good-night, Miss Craig," I answered, "and may
God bless you!"
Something in my manner troubled her. She
raised her eyes appealingly to my face.
"You think there is no hope?" she said. "I
mean about Michael? "
"There is always hope," I replied. "Without it,
how many of us would be able to face this world's
storms — and, frankly, I begin to see light through
the cloud ! "
" You do ! " she cried eagerly.
"Yes," I answered, "but don't question me any
more to-night. Only be sure of one thing — that I
have not been idle, and that I begin to think I have
found a clue."
"Thank God! " she said, raising her eyes to my
face ; then with another good-night, she entered the
house, and the door closed upon her, shutting her
from my sight.
CHAPTER XVI
The local excitement caused by the unsuccessful
attack on my person (if indeed such an attack had
been really intended, which I began to doubt) soon
subsided. After all, indeed, it was a very small
matter in a district where the Moonlighter never
ceases from troubling and the landlord is constantly
laid to rest. No further attempt, . however, was
made to molest me, and I never had any occasion to
use the revolver which remained snugly tucked away
in the pocket of my coat. I continued as heretofore
my daily routine of work and amusement, and
whenever I entered some wretched tumble-down
hut, I was received with cringing politeness,
through which veneer I now and then fancied I de-
tected lurking looks of dislike. But the attack on
the car had been mentioned by Father John in the
chapel ; standing near the altar he had vehemently
denounced the " bom blackguard " who had dared to
raise his hand against a ''Christian gentleman," like
myself; so that I was, in a sense, under the
Church's protection!
Meantime, winter had come in its usual stormy
guise to county Mayo; the air grew blacker and
FATHER ANTHONY 177
colder, keen frosts touched the bogs and brought in
the snipe, and now and then there was a snow-fall
which speedily melted away. The potato season
had been a bad one, and the wretched peasantry, ill-
clothed, ill-fed and ill-sheltered, suffered terribly;
indeed many would have died of absolute starvation
but for the helping hand of Eileen Craig. She, poor
girl, did not, even in her great fear and trouble,
neglect her duty to the poor. But the time was
now close at hand when her lover was to be tried
for his life, and her heart was with Michael in his
prison cell. I gave her what comfort I could, and
constantly renewed the hope I had sown in her
heart ; for, as I have said, I had at last got a clue,
and though it might lead to nothing, I was more
sanguine than I could say.
I had been surprised beyond measure on return-
ing to visit Father Anthony, whom I had left so
seriously ill, to find that he was up and about, and
devoting himself with more than ordinary zeal to
works and ministrations of charity. The hacking
cough still troubled him, and there were hectic spots
upon his cheeks, but when I remonstrated with him
and pointed out the danger of exposing himself to
the severities of that bitter winter, he paid no heed
whatever. "I'm quite well," he said, "and I shall
not neglect my duty either to my people or my
God."
"Sure the poor boy's too good for this world," said
12
178 FATHER ANTHONY
Father John to me one day, " and a heap too tender-
hearted. A man with a heart and soul like his
should never have become a priest."
I was still greatly puzzled by the young priest's
conduct, puzzled most of all that he still made no
attempt whatever to go to Kilsyth and meet Michael
in his prison, but I wondered more when I discov-
ered, as I did, that Father Anthony, instead of con-
fining his ministrations to his own district, extended
them as far as the lonely farm where the man Eory
Bournes lay under my care recovering from his
wound. Twice I met the young priest there face to
face, and on each occasion it was late at night. On
the first occasion, as I was about to enter the house,
I found him hurriedly leaving it, and I noticed that
my patient seemed strangely agitated, and that the
face of his sister sometimes bore traces of recent
tears. A few nights later I encountered him there
again. This time, instead of trying to avoid me, he
waited in the kitchen while I interviewed my pa-
tient, and when I left the house he left it with me,
saying he would walk with me along the road.
For a time we walked on in silence. It was a quiet
moonlight night and the road was quite deserted.
Presently Father Anthony turned to me and
asked : —
''Tell me the truth. Dr. Sutherland— will that
man live or die?"
I shrugged my shoulders.
FATHER ANTHONY 179
"One can never be certain of anything, but I
fancy he will die.*
His next question was, I thought, a strange one.
"How soon? What is the longest time he can
Uve? " he asked with an eagerness which surprised
me, and which induced me to reply : —
"Do you, as well as his sister, wish for his
death?"
In a moment he grew calm, and quietly made the
sign of the cross upon his breast.
"God forgive me," he murmured. "Why should
I wish for the death of any man? You will do your
best to save him, unworthy as he is? "
"I am doing my best," I answered quietly," but
you are hindering me ! "
"In what way?"
" I notice that your visits agitate him. If he is
to recover, you must allow me to attend to his body,
and for the time being you must leave his spiritual
welfare alone."
He made no reply, so I continued : —
"You seem to be strangely interested in this
man?"
"I am interested in all those who are in trouble,"
he returned quietly.
"Xo doubt; but the place where he lives is out-
side the limits of your present cure, and I must con-
fess I was surprised to find you ministering so far
away
t»
180 FATHER ANTHONY
His face was turned from me, but I could see that
he was nervous and agitated.
"He is one of my old parishioners," he replied.
«I have known him for years, and "
He paused, trembling violently, and then with a
total change of manner he gripped me by the arm
and cried: —
" Doctor, I feel sometimes as if there was a curse
upon me ! I know that you mistrust me — ^that you
suspect me — God knows of what! Bear with me, I
entreat you! Believe, if you can, that I am only
trying to do my duty^ and to grope to the light out
of darkness. Trust me ! Pray for me ! Pray that
the Lord may save me, that I may not go quite
mad! "
Before I could reply to this strange tirade he had
wrung my hand, and with a low cry disappeared
into the night. I called after him, but he did not
reply, and would not return. More than ever mys-
tified and troubled, I walked home to Mylrea.
After this the priest's visits to the farm appeared
to cease — at any rate, I did not meet him there
again. From that time forward I watched with
growing interest both the man and his sister, and
the more I watched them the more puzzled did I
become. Since our first passage of arms no further
one had occurred between the girl and myself.
During my visits she maintained a sullen and
dogged silence. Though she sternly refused to raise
FATHER ANTHONY 181
her hand to assist the recovery of her brother, she
did nothing to retard it. He, for his part, seemed
to regard me with the same disfavour as did the
woman, though I was certainly doing all in my
power to save his life.
Anxious to learn more about the strange couple,
I cross-examined Andy, but found that beyond what
he had already told me he knew little or nothing.
Almost by accident, however, I discovered a very
fountain of information in my new lodging, and in
the person of my own landlady. From the Widow
Macrae I learned that Kate, or Kathleen Bournes,
who had been bred and bom in Castlebar, had lived
for some time as a sort of upper servant with Mrs.
Creenan, during the life of the latter's husband.
About the same time as the return of Anthony
Creenan from Maynooth, however, Kathleen had
left Mrs. Creenan and set up housekeeping with her
brother, lately returned from America, and since
that time she had dwelt on the farm which she stUl
occupied. At first she was visited from time to
time by both Michael Creenan and his brother;
Michael went more frequently of the two. He was
a keen sportsman, and, when passing the farm with
rod or gun, would step in to have a chat with Kath-
leen, for whom he was profoundly sorry. Suddenly,
#
however, these visits ceased, and the lad was seen to
enter the farm no more.
"Not a soul in Mylrea but myself knows the
182 FATHBR ANTHONY /
<
cause of that same," said the widow, "and 'twrts only
by chance that it came to me. I had knowrl Kath-
leen a long time, and had often helped her wjhen she
was in trouble through h^r thief of a brotheir, so one
day I walked over to see her and to have! a chat.
Well, sir, I found her seated by the fire crj^ing, and
I thought 'twas Eory had been blackguarcling her,
but when I told her so she shook her head,i the poor
cratur, and cried the more. ' Sure, I doii't mind
Eory,' she said; 'he's rough when he's /had the
drink, but he's right enough when he's solder. All
the same, I wish I was dead ' ; and when I pressed
her a little she up and told me the truth ;; she had
fallen over head and ears in love wid Master
Michael!"
"With Michael Creenan? "
"Yes, indeed, sor; wid the poor boy that's now
in gaol. Well, I couldn't believe my ears when she
told me that same, but she held to it that 'twas the
truth. ' And why shouldn't I love him? ' she said;
' sure's he's as good as he's bold and handsome.
Didn't he come here day after day to cheer me, till
I looked for his coming as I look for the light o*
day? Well, one day when he came he seemed a bit
downhearted like, and before I knew just what I
was doing I fell on his neck and told him how dear
I loved him ! He seemed to be a bit dazed at first
an* thought 'twas joking I was, but when he found
I was in earnest he blamed himself, and said I must
FATHER ANTHONY 183
'fciy to forget all about him ! And ever since that
day I've never set eyes on him, and sure my heart's
iDroken, and I wish I was lying in the churchyard ! *
T^ell, sor, I was sorry enough for the poor colleen,
though I knew 'twas foolish she was to set her heart
on a young gentleman like Michael Creenan, and I
talked to her and comforted her as well as I could,
but 'twas no manner of use. She just sat day after
day moping and fretting beside the fire, never doin'
a stroke of work, but seemin' as if her heart was
broken entirely. Then all at once she changed ! "
" Changed ? " I repeated. " How ? '
"'Twas one day, not so long ago neither, your
honour, she comes rushing over here to me. Sure
she wasn't crying that time, but her eyes was flam-
ing like fire, and her face looked that black and sav-
age 'twas frightened I was to see her. * Sure I know
now why 'twas he told me to forget him,' she said ;
' 'tis because he loves her, bad cess to her!' And
then, your honour, she up and put the curse on
Miss Eileen, and swore that sooner than see Master
Michael marry the mistress she'd kill him wid her
own hand ! "
" When did this happen ? * I asked.
" Just before you came to Mylrea, your honour,
and before the old master was murdered. Sure, I
often thought myself, 'twas no cne but Kathleen
set the master to watch Miss Eileen and Master
Michael that day he came upon them on the moor.
184 FATHER ANTHONY
She wanted to get them parted, your honour.
Sure, she knew she could not have Master Michael
herself, but she wouldn't let another colleen step in
her shoes. Sooner than see him married to Miss
Eileen, I believe she'd send him to the gallows even
now."
The day after my conversation with Mrs. Macrae
I visited the farm again, and found my patient worse.
The wound was healing, but feverish symptoms had
set in, and he seemed strangely perturbed ; his sis-
ter, too, had lost some of her wonted calmness, and
watched my doings with evident anxiety. When I
had finished she followed me into the kitchen and
called me back as I reached the door.
"Your honour," she said, "is it true what they're
telling me — that Michael Creenan is going to be
hanged? "
"Who told you that? " I asked.
" Sure, 'twas Bridget came down last night from
Craig Castle to see how Rory was getting on, and
she told it to us both."
"If he is guilty," I said with assumed indififer-
ence^ "they will surely hang him, I suppose."
"But if he isn't, your honour? It's not guilty he
is, but innocent as the babe at the breast! "
"Even then," I said, speaking slowly and watch-
ing her face keenly as I did so, " unless the right
man is found — and I begin to despair of ever finding
him — I fear there will be little chance for young
FATHER ANTHONY 185
Oreenan. Many a man has been executed on less
evidence than they are bringing against him ! "
She did not answer, but she slowly bowed her
Iiead and covered her face with her hands. She
xnade no sound, but her whole body shook as if
^with convulsive sobs. I allowed her to remain so
for a moment, then I placed my hand softly on her
shoulder as I said : —
" Why do you take so much interest in Michael
Creenan? *•
She raised her head, and the ghastly pallor of her
face startled me. I was astonished to see her eyes
were quite dry.
"Master Michael was always very good to me,*
she murmured, as she turned sullenly away.
From that day forward the girl's whole character
seemed to undergo an extraordinary change. Her
former defiant air was replaced by one of dull sub-
mission, while her tone towards her brother seemed
by contrast almost sympathetic. He, for his part,
watched her face, her every movement with strange
anxiety. His manner had become more and more
that of a hunted animal brought to bay by its pur-
suers, and panting for liberty emd life.
CHAPTER XVII
With every one of my visits to the sick man my
interest in Kathleen Bournes deepened, until it
amounted to a sort of nervous fascination. Her
strange though somewhat savage beauty, her air of
suppressed yet consuming passion, the fierce yet
often wistful look of her pale face and wild, watch-
ful eyes, attracted me in spite of myself, and the
account I had heard of her hopeless love for Michael
Creenan now surrounded her in my eyes with a cer-
tain romantic interest. At the same time, I could
not help feeling that she was a woman of dangerous
temperament, capable in her wild moods of some
deed of violence. In vain I sought during my
visits to lure her into conversation. Although, as
I have said, her manner had become more gentle
and subdued, she still seemed desirous of avoiding
any general communication, and when I questioned
her on any subject her replies were invariably brief
and unsatisfactory.
One morning, however, when I came from the
sick room, where I had left the man slumbering
peacefully, still under the influence of a sleeping
potion which I had administered the previous night.
THE NEW rORI
PUBLIC UBRiLAT
HLreN FOJNDATtONS
1
188 FATHER ANTHONY
"Sure, your honour's joking," she muiiaured, not,
I thought, angrily.
"Indeed, no. You are pretty; and ^ou have at
least one gift which the proudest lady in the land
would envy you — ^your beautiful hair."
She looked up quickly, and our ey iB met again ;
when, to my surprise, her eyes filled with tears, and
she turned her face away. I had tou^Bhed a tender
chord, but I saw at once that she was not altogether
displeased, for as I lingered watching/ her, her hand
stole up to her head and touched the snooded folds
of the locks which I had praised.
"1*11 wager now," I added a little perversely, "that
this is not the first time youVe been told that your
hair is beautiful?"
She made no immediate reply, but her heart
heaved, and I saw a tear rolling down her cheek.
"Sure, I'm not caring what they say of me," she
said presently. " I know I'm no lady, and I know
I'm only a poor colleen. Why will your honour be
laughing at me and calling me pretty? It would
have pleased me once to hear that same, but now —
oh, don't spake of it; don't waken the pride in my
heart, and me heartbroken."
As she spoke she leant her head back against the
cottage wall, and with her hands lying helplessly in
her lap, permitted the tears to flow, quietly, silently,
like water welling up from an overflowing fountain.
"My poor girl," I said, deeply touched by her
FATHKB AKTHOHT 189
emotion, 'I know yon aie in great boable. I
wish you would open your heait to me and try to
look upon me as a friend."
"There's no friend in all the world for the likes
o' me,* she cried in the same low, despairing
tones.
" Why do you say that? I have done all I can to
help your brother, and I would gladly be of service
to you. I know something of joor stoty already ;
and perhaps if you told me more '
In a moment her manner changed, and she sprang
to her feet, brushing away the tears and looking me
in the face.
"Who's been telling about me?' she cried.
"Who's been telling lies about me and saying I'm
in trouble ? "
"No one,' I replied quietly. "Only it is quite
dear that you are unhappy, and I should like to
know the cause. Perhaps I can help you — who
knows ? '
" You can't help me. No one can help me," was
the passionate reply. "And I'm not asking help: I
only want to be left alone in peace.'
I placed my hand gently on her arm and said,
still watching her intently : —
"In a few days I shall be seeing Michael Creenan
^ain. Would you like me to give him any mes-
sage?'
I felt her frame quivering beneath my touch.
190 FATHER ANTHONY
Her eyes cast downward, and her face averted, sh(
shrank nervously away.
" Why do you spake of Master Michael ? " she^
murmured. "What message would you take him
from the likes o' me? "
"I know that you cared for him. I am sure that
you would, if it were possible, be of help to him in
his great extremity. That is why I have spoken to
you of him, and why I have ofifered to be your
friend."
I waited quietly for the effect of my words.
Since she had so persistently refused to reveal the
real truth concerning her interest in the young man
I had determined of set purpose to reveal my own
knowledge of the secret. Trembling like a leaf she
sank again on the stool near the door, and covered
her face with her hands. When she looked up
again there were no tears in her eyes ; her face was
pale and set, and her voice was firm and clear.
"K you'll be seeing Master Michael," she said,
"you may tell him that Kathleen Bournes sends
him her blessing, for the sake of old times; and
you may tell him, that she's praying for him night
and day, and waiting for the time when he'll be
free. Sure I'm not ashamed now to say it — he was
the pulse of my heart and the light of my life, when
I was over yonder at Mylrea ! "
"There is nothing to be ashamed of," I replied.
" I know you loved him ! "
FATHER ANTHONY 191
"Sure and I did! " the girl replied with a little of
^®r old bold maimer, " and when he turned away to
^ss Eileen he took the light of the day with him !
^od bless him! What then? The sound of his
^oice was in my heart, and the thought of him was
^ie music in my dreams; and though I hated her
^r taking him from me, I knew that she was a lady
^^d I was the dirt beneath her feet. Then the black
'^our came, and the master was struck down — rest
'^is soul 1 And my heart was full of sorrow for the
^^Id man and for Miss Eileen ! "
Though the words were sympathetic, the tone was
^^most defiant. I suffered her to talk on, only in-
'^errupting her now and then with an exclamation or
^ note of interrogation. The flood-gates of her
:»eticence once lifted she seemed to find relief in the
torrent of passionate words which was flowing from
lier mouth.
" But sure it was like a knife through my heart
when I heard that Master Michael had been taken
up for murder; for didn't I know that he was gentle
and kind, and would never have raised his hand
against the master, and him an old man and Miss
Eileen's father? And when they carried him away
to Castlebar and put him in the prison cell, I'd have
gone to Miss Eileen and spoke the word of comfort
to her, but I was ashamed. I've the black heart,
sometimes, your honour, and the blood of my father
and my brother rises up to my head and makes me
192 FATHBB ANTHONY
mad; but I'm not so bad as some think me, and I'd
have died to save Mister Michael ! '
" I am certain of that," I said gently. " Even now,
it may not be too late to help him."
"I'm thinking of that," she said, ''waking and
sleeping ! " She added, with a wild appealing ges-
ture, "Does your honour think he'll come to harm? "
I replied that the case certainly looked rather
black against the prisoner, but that I was sanguine
of ascertaining, before the day of trial, such facts as
might tell in his favour. I said nothing of my own
conviction, now amounting to a certainty, that
Michael Creenan, whether or not he was actually
guilty, knew more than he cared to say concerning
the crime, and that his knowledge was shared by his
brother. Father Anthony.
"But if Michael Creenan is innocent," I said,
"who is guilty? Until we can decide that, we are
entirely helpless."
I watched her closely as I spoke, but I detected
no expression of dread, or any change of manner
whatever. She held her head erect, her gaze fixed
on the far distance, as if she beheld there something
invisible to all eyes except her own. With the con-
fession of her love had come a certain bold dignity,
a fearless self-assertion, which completely trans-
formed her from the sullen creature she had once
seemed, to a proud and beautiful woman.
"Maybe we're not helpless, after all," she said
FATHER ANTHONY 193
quietly, "if your honour will be patient, and tell
Master Michael that Kathleen Bournes is going to
save his life. I am, your honour, if God will give
me strength; but, oh! it's a hard task the Lord has
set me, though I mean to see it through. Tell him
I don't forget the old times, when he was a bold
young gentleman and I was only a silly young
coUeen. 'Twas him that praised my hair then, and
called me pretty, just as your honour did this day.
I don't forget! I don't forget! And if it was my
own grave I was digging, I'd work to get the boy
I loved once out of the prison at Castlebar."
So saying, she turned from me and walked slowly
into the house. I made no attempt to follow her or
to question her further, for I was satisfied now that
I had misunderstood her character, and that she was
a faithful friend and well-wisher to Michael Creenan.
On the evening of that day I had occasion to see
Miss Craig at the Castle, and in the course of our
conversation I mentioned for the first time my ac-
quaintance with Kathleen Bournes. I saw at once
from Eileen's manner that she was not too favour-
ably disposed towards Kathleen.
" How did you come to know her? ' she asked
uneasily, with a slight flush on her cheek.
"Her brother had met with an accident in a
drunken brawl," I explained, "tmd I carried him
home on my car from Balsyth Fair the day I was
shot at from the roadside. Since then I have
13
194 FATHER ANTHONY
visited the house frequently, and have been much
struck by the girl's somewhat savage beauty. It is
a pity to see so handsome a creature among such
surroundings."
Without replying, Eileen walked up and down
the room with the impatient impetuosity peculiar to
her. Suddenly she paused and faced me.
** Why do you mention this girl to me? " she de-
manded point-bletnk, somewhat to my confusion.
"You have heard something? You know what peo-
ple say about her and Michael? "
I was bound to confess the truth, but I added that,
so far as I had been informed, all the love-making
had been on one side — that of the woman.
"Of course," cried Eileen imperiously.
I ought to have known sufi&cient of human nature
to have been aware that I had committed a Mtise.
I recognised the fact too late, and all I could do was
to drop the subject; fortunately, it was soon forgotten
in our discussion of the peril which still surrounded
Michael Creenan.
^
CHAPTER XVm
I HAVE said that I held in my hands a clue to the
mystery of Mr. Craig's murder, and so, as it turned
out, I did. It consisted, however, of several tangled
threads, each of which seemed to lead in a different
direction.
I had discovered, for example, that the Creenans
had been for a long time in close communication
with Rory Bournes and his sister; added to this,
that there had been certain love passages between
the latter and Michael Creenan, in consequence of
which the woman Kathleen had become savagely
jealous, and had possibly, as my informant sug-
gested, warned Mr. Craig that Michael was meeting
with Eileen. Here I came to a cul de sac ; for if,
as I sometimes suspected, the man Bournes knew
something about the old gentleman's murder, and
had been concerned in it, either as principal or ac-
cessory, how reconcile that suspicion with the fact
that his sister's interests could be best served by
keeping Mr. Craig alive? It was conceivable that
the man might have decided to avenge the slight
upon his sister by compassing the death of the per-
son who had deserted her for another woman; it
196 FATHER ANTHONY
was incredible, on the other hand, that either he or
his sister could have any interest in injuring the
father of Eileen. The more I thought it all over,
the more I became terrified at the possible result of
my investigations. Everything I had learned, in-
deed, increased the probability that Michael Creenan
was less innocent than I had at first supposed.
Assuming his complicity, all the mystery seemed
clear. Furious with Mr. Craig for the insults upon
him, and despairmg of winning Eileen while her
father lived, Michael Creenan had taken counsel
with the desperado Bournes, and with or without
his assistance had committed the crime ; his brother
Anthony had by some means or other become aware
of the truth, and hence the horror which made him
shrink away from his brother, and the motive for
his secret visits to the wounded man ; while Kath-
leen Bournes, also cognisant of the facts, and sym-
pathising with her lover, was furious with her
brother for having taken part in the crime, and in
daily dread that he might confess his complicity
and so ensure Michael Creenan's conviction.
All this, of course, was mere theory, but it was
theory which afforded a common-sense explanation
of everything, and of the extraordinary conduct of
all concerned. Still I could not quite convince my-
self that Michael Creenan was guilty. In the first
place, he had impressed me personally with the feel-
ing that he was incapable of a crime so atrocious ; he
FATHER ANTHONY 197
had, indeed, all the bearing of an innocent man;
secondly, Eileen's belief in him was so absolute and
xmhesitating ; and finally, Father Anthony had
affirmed, under oath, that his brother was innocent.
In less than a week now the assizes at Castlebar
would open, and Creenan would be tried for his
life. As the time drew near Eileen's agitation in-
creased, and whenever we met I was startled and
almost terrified by the excitement of her demeanour.
My dread was that she would break down before
the trial. I felt convinced, moreover, that if
Michael were condemned, she would never survive
the sorrow and despair. I did my best to comfort
her, but it became more and more difficult; she was
shrewd enough indeed to see that I was assuming a
hope which I did not really feel.
About this time she paid another visit to Castle-
bar and again interviewed the prisoner. This time
she went alone, and on her return I was sent for to
the Castle, where I found her waiting anxiously for
me. Her usually gentle manner had quite changed ;
her forehead was knitted, her expression almost
angry. When I entered she sprang from the chair
on which she had been seated, and approached me
with flashing eyes.
"Is all the world turning against me? * she cried.
"Have I no true friend? Why do you not help me?
Why did you promise to do so much, only to do
notfiing— yes, nothing? "
198 FATHBR ANTHONY
I tried to soothe her, but it was in vain; she had
lost all self-command, and cried presently : —
** You are almost a stranger. It can matter little
to you whether Michael lives or dies ! But his own
flesh and blood — his brother, who pretended to love
him — where is he? Why has he never been to see
him — never sent a word to comfort him? Oh, it is
cruel — cruel! And he — he is heartbroken at the
unkindness ! *
"Father Anthony has been so ill,** I said, not
knowing what better excuse to make for him.
" It is false ! " she answered, pacing the room.
"He is only pretending to be ill! He keeps away
because he is a coward, and believes his brother
guilty. His heart is cold and cruel ; he is hateful !
He calls himself a priest, but a priest of God should
have compassion — even for the guilty. Every time
that the poor mother has visited her son he has
asked for his brother; and when I saw him yester-
day he asked the same thing. What could I say to
him? I could only hide the truth and tell him that
Anthony loved him but was too ill to come to
him!"
Knowing or suspecting what I did, I was doubly
distressed by her conversation. It was not in her
nature, however, to be violent long; she grew
calmer presently, and after begging me to forgive
her for having spoken to me so harshly, she ex-
plained that during her visit to the prison she had
200 FATHER ANTHONY
him to the police, for if his evidence would be of any
avail there was no time to be lost.
I was determined also to interview Anthony
Creenan, and to adopt the same tactics. Come what
might, I was resolved not to lie low any longer, but
to tax both men with their knowledge of the crime.
It was dark as pitch when I set out on my road
to the farm where my patient was lying, but I knew
every footstep of the way. The night was bleak
and cold, the nor* -west wind was rising and bring-
ing with it as it crossed the dark moorland a deep
troubled murmur from the adjoining sea.
The time was late for a sick visit, but I had
chosen it advisedly; I wanted to face the man
alone, with no likelihood of interruption. I knew I
had to deal with a desperado who might have other
desperadoes at his call, but I was armed, and was
not going to be deterred from my object by any
childish fear.
When I gained the narrow lane leading to the
farm I struck a match and looked at my watch ; it
was ten o'clock — an hour when most of the peasant
folk in that wild district are abed; but there was a
light in the window of the sick room, and a faint
reddish gleam, as of firelight, from the window of
the kitchen. I walked on, and reaching the yard
in front of the house stole quietly forward towards
the door; but the kitchen window was uncurtained,
and I had the curiosity to look in.
202 FATHER ANTHONY
held up a crucifix ; but the other covered his eyes as
if to shut out the sight, then waved his hands wildly
as if imploring to be left alone. The priest half
turned and I saw his face. It was more like the
face of a spectre than a man — every lineament of it
seemed changed, and the dark eyes were full of
angry light. He clutched the crucifix in his hands,
kissed it, then raised his eyes to heaven as if im-
ploring strength ; and all the time he spoke rapidly
— the sound of his voice reached me, but I could
not clearly distinguish one word. While I stood
hesitating, the priest turned again towards the bed,
while the sick man stretched forth his hands and
clutched wildly at the crucifix. But Father Anthony
thrust the hands back and raised the sacred emblem
high in the air above the man's reach.
For a time I was rooted to the spot, unable to
move, even to think; but at last, unwilling any
longer to play the spy, I drew back from the win-
dow, passed round to the front of the house, and
without waiting to knock, pushed at the door; it
opened to my touch, and I found myself in the
kitchen. As I entered the woman sprang to her
feet with a cry.
Without speaking I moved towards the door of
the inner room, but Kathleen interposed, and said
in a low voice : —
" You can't see my brother to-night, he has some
one with him — and sure it's late for a sick call ! "
4 ^kJ^^^^^^H
1 \
E CLtrrCKKD THE CRUCIFIX IN HIS HANDS, K
IMPLOKING S
[THE NEW YO»l|
PUfiUC UBRAUT
TTLDEN FOUNDATIOWS
11
y
FATHER ANTHONY 203
** Who is with him? " I asked, curious to see what
she would reply.
"Only one of the neighbors, sure,** she replied,
and as she spoke the voices within were raised
again, and the sick man uttered another woeful
cry.
"Why do you lie to me? " I demanded. "Father
Anthony Creenan is there ! **
" And what then ? * she at once responded. " Can't
the soggarth visit a dying man without being fol-
lowed and spied ^wpon^by the likes of you? Yes,
it*s the priest thstt's with him, for he's taken worse,
and it's not the doctor he's needing now."
"Nevertheless, J must see him," I said. "I came
for that purpose."
"Leave them alone, doctor," she cried eagerly.
"Sure they're better alone."
"If the priest is ministering to him," I said, "I
wUl wait," and I walked over to the hearth.
She returned at once to her seat, and we remained
in silence — the silence being broken only by the
murmur of voices from within. Presently another
piercing cry rent the air. I made a movement, the
girl sprang up and stretched her hand as if again to
detain me, but as she did so the inner door opened,
and Father Anthony, gaunt and pale, stood upon the
threshold.
"Send for the doctor," he said hurriedly. "He's
dying."
204 FATHBR ANTHONY
Suddenly he saw and recognised me, and staggered
like a drunken man.
"When did you come in?" he asked eagerly.
"How long have you been here? *
Without replying I passed him by and entered
the inner room.
The wounded man was lying on the bed ghastly
pale, his eyes staring, his powerful frame shivering
convulsively, but I saw in a moment that he had
merely fainted. I took out my flask and poured
some brandy down his throat; in a few minutes he
breathed more easily, and I saw by the expression
of his eyes that he was conscious.
There was a movement behind me. Turning
quietly I saw the priest standing in the middle of
the room.
"He is not dying," I said. "But I should warn
you that he is not in a fit state to listen to your
ministrations."
Father Anthony did not reply ; he merely inclined
his head and made the sign of the cross on his breast.
But at that moment Eory rose in the bed, gripped me
wildly by the arm, and gasped in terror: —
" Keep her away from me ! Strike her down if
she tries to lay a finger on me! It's to kill me
she's trying, your honour — to kill me entirely,
though she's my own flesh and blood! "
Following the direction of his eyes, I saw Kath-
leen standing close to the priest's side, and looking
FATHER ANTHONY 205
with a dark frown at the miserable figure on the
bed.
"Don't be afraid," I said, "no one shall harm you.*
"And who wants to harm him?" cried the girl.
** Sure it's myself that wants to keep the life in him,
not take it away. Spake, Eory Bournes ! Have ye
confessed to his reverence, and has he given ye ab-
solution?"
Without replying the man released my arm, and
sank moaning back upon the pillows.
" Lave me in peace," he murmured. " Lave me in
peace!"
" There's no peace for you and me this side the
grave," said Kathleen, "and it's well you know
that; for the curse of God is on you, and on this
house, and it's only his reverence can lift it away !
O Eory, mavoumeen," she continued, changing her
fierce manner to one of wild entreaty, "spake out
while there's time, and sure his reverence will ab-
solve ye, and you'll have my blessing as well as his,
to lighten the heavy load you have to bear."
But the man now relapsed into a sullen silence,
refusing to speak another word. I stood by the
bedside for a few minutes, then beckoned the girl
from the room. She followed me quietly, and im-
mediately Father Anthony joined us in the kitchen.
"Eemember what I told you," I said to Kathleen.
"Your brother's life is in my hands, and if it is
tampered with in any way "
206 FATHER ANTHONY
" Your honour needn't be afraid/ she replied.
" Ask his reverence ! "
"She is right," said the priest. "You may safely
trust her ! Sure it would be misfortune to her — to
all of us — if anything happened to her brother."
" But she herself has said to me that she desired
his death,* I answered.
"She desires it no longer," said Father Anthony,
looking earnestly at the girl. " She wishes him to
live."
Kathleen inclined her head.
"That's the God's truth," she cried in a broken
voice. " Sure enough I did wish him to die in his
bed, but 'twas in dread I was for himself and not
thinking of his poor soul."
There was a pause. Then the young priest turned
to me and asked quietly : —
"May I walk with you to Mylrea? I wish to
speak to you."
A few minutes later we left the house together.
Very little was said on either side till we reached
the door of my lodging. By this time it was nearly
midnight, my landlady had retired for the night,
and the place was in darkness ; but I led the way to
my room, lit a light, and invited my companion to
be seated.
He sank into a chair and covered his face with
his hands as if praying. When he looked up again
I saw that his eyes were full of teajs.
FATHER ANTHONY 207
"It is very late,* I said, "and you are far from
borne. What will you do? "
"I shall walk home across the hills,* he replied;
and as he spoke his breath was caught and he
Coughed violently.
"You are endangering your life,* I said. "With
that cough you should never be out after nightfall.*
He smiled sadly.
" My own life is nothing,* he rejJiied. " Sure I've
given it to God! But I wished to speak to you
about my brother.* He paused for a moment then
added gently: "He thinks it very strange, does he
not, that I do not visit him in. his prison yonder? *
Thus prompted, I told him what I had heard from
Eileen. As I spoke I saw his dark eyes overflow-
ing, and when I paused he tried in* vain to speak, so
deep was his emotion. At last he said : —
" Dr. Sutherland, if I tell you that I would gladly
be in my brother's place, that I would gladly die for
him, will you believe me? I love my brother, and it
is breaking my heart not to be near him in his sor-
row ; but God knows I cannot help myself. I dare
not meet him ! I need all my strength, and if I
looked into his eyes and knew that I could not speak
the word to save him, I believe that I should die ! *
" I don't understand you ! * I cried almost angrily.
"In God's name, why all this mystery? If you
can help your brother why do you hesitate? *
" I cannot help him ! * was the reply.
208 FATHER ANTHONY
Then I poured out all my suspicions, and explained
the conclusion at which I had arrived — that Michael
Creenan and the man Bournes were mixed up in the
crime, and that the object of the priest's visits to
Bournes was to prevent him from giving such testi-
mony as might ensure Michael's conviction for
murder.
He heard me out patiently, and did not seem sur-
prised.
"Can you deny what I say? * I cried.
He looked me quietly in the face, then he rose,
drew his soutane around him, and prepared to de-
part.
"I can deny nothing," he finally said, "and I can
say nothing. My lips are sealed! But tell Miss
Craig from me that I do not even now despair of
being able to prove my brother's innocence. Tell
her from me to have faith in God ! "
So saying he left the cottage and passed out into
the night.
CHAPTER XIX
It was the eve of the assizes at Castlebar. The
town was swarming with strangers, chiefly members
of the legal profession; the hotels and inns were
overflowing, and throngs of country people filled the
market-place and the surrounding streets. The
judge and other high functionaries were expected to
arrive that evening by train, and the local authori-
ties were preparing to receive them with all due
honour.
Meantime Michael Creenan was languishing
among other unfortunates in the town gaol. The
Mylrea Murder Case was not likely to be reached
till the third or fourth day of the assizes, although
from the popular point of view it was the most in-
teresting case on the list for trial. Report said that
the judge. Sir James Cleary, a most impopular judge
in the west of Ireland, in so far as he combined with
strong anti-Nationalist sympathies an almost savage
severity towards the criminal classes, was unlikely
to overlook any point which might lead to the con-
viction of the accused ; but that was of less conse-
quence than the fact that the popular verdict had
already condemned Michael Creenan, and that a
14
210 FATHER ANTHONY
jury selected from among the townspeople was cei
tain to be strongly prepossessed against him. TI
whole prospect, indeed, looked black and almo^^^^
hopeless when Miss Craig arrived in Castlebar
make her last despairing efforts to save her lover.
I had promised to follow her the next mominj
In honest truth, I dreaded the journey in her com — ^"
pany, and was still at my wits' end how to help osri -r
comfort her. But the real cause of my delay wi
my own hesitation to act. If I yielded to my im-
pulse and warned the police of my suspicion thai
the man Bournes was in some way accessory to the
crime, I might be merely putting the rope with
more certainty round Michael Creenan's neck ; and
that I naturally hesitated to do. The same conse-
quence might ensue if I reported the mysterious
conduct of the young priest.
I determined, therefore, to wait and watch for
a little while yet, and see what might ensue.
Michael Creenan was not yet either tried or con-
demned, and in the meantime there was a possibility
that I might make some new discovery, even at the
last moment.
Somewhat to my surprise, after that midnight
interview with Father Anthony, my patient at the
lonely farm seemed to gain strength. In a couple
of days he was out of bed and sitting up in the sick
room; but with that increasing strength came an in-
creasing suUenness and taciturnity, so that he seemed
FATHER ANTHONY 211
almost to resent my efforts to restore him to health.
His cry now was for drink, which his sister, under
my instructions, carefully kept from him.
On the afternoon of the day when the assizes
were to open I visited the farm, and found the man
up and dressed, though still too weak to venture out
of the house. He greeted me with his usual growl
of salutation, and then said, glancing darkly at his
sister, who stood by : —
"Did your honour tell Kathleen not to let me
taste a drop of spirits? "
" Certainly," I replied. " In your present condi-
tion drink is poison to you, and unless you want to
die "
"Sure I don't mind about that," he muttered.
" I'm wake and low, and a little shmall drop of the
drink would comfort me."
"If you were a wise man," I returned, "you would
never see whisky again. I believe it's at the bottom
of all your troubles. By the way," I added, "you've
never told me how you got that ugly wound in the
arm."
I watched him closely as I put the question.
His coarse, unshaven face, grim as a wild beast's,
went black as thunder, and he cast a strange glance
at his sister as he answered : —
" My curse on them as done it ! I'll be even with
them some day."
"But how did it happen? " I persisted.
212 FATHER ANTHONY
He turned his savage eyes on mine.
"You want to know too much," he muttered.
But at that moment, to my surprise, Kathleen
stepped forward and, pointing at him with a trem-
bling finger, cried :—
"Tell his honour what he asks! Tell him the
truth, Rory Bournes ! or shall I tell him ? "
"Hould your tongue," growled the man, with a
curious look of alarm.
" Sure ril not hold my tongue," returned Kath-
leen, with growing excitement. Then turning
quickly to me she added, with a flash of her dark
eyes: "'Twas myself that did it; and by that token
I'm sorry that 'twas no worse! "
"Don't believe her," returned the man. "She's
lying."
"I'm not lying neither," said Kathleen; and as
she spoke she rushed across the room, and throwing
open a cupboard, drew from it a small reaping-hook,
such as women and children use in Mayo when
gathering in the corn. The man uttered a cry and
shrank back in terror. But without looking at him,
she brought the reaping-hook to me and placed it
in my hand.
"Look at it, your honour," she cried. "Look at
the blood there on the blade of it — the blood of
him that I struck with it, bad luck to him. Is it
lying I am, now? "
I examined the weapon. The point and inner
THE WE>' ^0**,
nUDEN r
FATHER ANTHONY 213
edge, sharp as a razor, were covered with blood,
a.s she said; blood which had dried on to it; and
Inhere were crimson spots and splashes even on the
handle.
I looked at the woman in horror, while her brother,
now white with terror, eagerly besought me not to
let her approach him.
"Sure you needn't be afraid," she said. "I've
given my word to the soggarth, and 111 never lift
my finger against him again: but if he says I didn't
do it he's lying, your honour. I stabbed him with
the i-eaping-hook, and God Willing I'd have had his
life."
"Why did you do. this? " I demanded. "You
might have murdered him; and from what you say
it was your intention to do so."
"Sure enough," was the reply. "Ask him why;
maybe he'll tell ye the truth, or maybe it'll be only
another lie ! "
So saying, she took the reaping-hook from me,
and placing it back in the cupboard turned the key
in the door.
"Your honour may keep the key," she said, plac-
ing it in my hands. " What I did once I did, but
I'll never do that same again. My brother Rory
knows he's safe enough now from me."
And without another word she left the room. I
sat with the sick man for a little time, but failed to
elicit from him any further information. His mo-
214 FATHER ANTHONY
mentary alann over, he relapsed into his former
siillen mood, and only responded to me in mono-
syllables ; but when, as in duty bound, I asked him
if he was still in dread of his sister's violence, he
replied : —
"No, your honour. She manes what she says —
she's sorry for what she done.*
I left him, and passing into the adjoining kitchen,
found Kathleen watching by the fire, with her face
hidden in her hands. When I approached her she
looked up, and I saw the tears streaming down her
face.
"You are a strange girl," I said gently. "What
had your brother done that you should attempt to
injure him so terribly? *
" Your honour will know some day," she answered,
sobbing: "but sure, he's my own flesh and blood,
and I don't want to see him come to harm. It's the
curse of God is on him and me and all of us, and
sure my heart's broken and I wish I was lying in
my grave."
I attempted to question her further, but could get
nothing out of her. At last I expressed to her
plainly enough my belief that both she and her
brother knew more than they cared or dared to say
about the Mylrea mystery. She did not appear at
all astonished, nor did she exhibit any dread when I
added that it might be my duty to commimicate
with the police.
FATHER ANTHONY 215
" It's not the peelers I'm afraid of," she said quietly,
"but the curse o' God! Sure it's no use questioning
me or asking what I know, for I've sworn to his
reverence to hold my tongue."
This was all she would admit, and so far it went
to corroborate my suspicion that the priest, for his
brother's sake, was trying to close the mouths of
Bournes and his sister.
Here I hung, then, between the horns of a dilemma.
It was clearly my duty to inform the authorities of
what I had discovered, yet I still hesitated, fearing
that by so doing I might deal the death blow to
Eileen ; for I still had no doubt whatever that the
proof of Michael's guilt of, or complicity in, the
crime would be fatal to the devoted girl who loved
him so passionately, and believed so firmly in his
innocence.
The assizes opened, and I still lingered at Mylrea.
The journals containing the account of the opening
day were brought to me, and I read that the judge,
in his charge to the grand jury, alluded in strong
terms to the coming murder trial, describing the
case as one of "those abominable crimes which were
still so common in Ireland, and which it was the
mission of the law to suppress with its severest
penalties." "Deeds so savage and so inhuman,"
said Sir James, " are still the disgrace and shame of
our unhappy country, into so many districts of
which the blessings of Christianity and the light of
216 FATHER ANTHONY
civilisation seem to have scarcely penetrated. You.
may have an opportimity before long of proving that
they awaken in the hearts of educated Irishmen only
horror and loathing. If , as is possible, one of these
barbarous criminals is brought before you and con-
victed, on clear evidence, of his guilt, I know that
you, gentlemen, will not flinch from your duty to
your coimtry and to your God." My eyes dazzled
as I read the terrible words, for I thought of Eileen
and how she, too, would read them in the extremity
of her despair.
I hesitated no longer, but prepared to journey tc
Castlebar. I intended on my arrival there to inter-
view the solicitor for the defence and place before
him all the facts I had gathered together.
It was late in the afternoon, and the car stooc
ready at the door, when my landlady entered th(
room with a terrified face and informed me that i
woman wanted to see me.
"Who is it? " I asked impatiently.
"Sure it*s that mad creature Kathleen Bournes,'
answered the widow, "and she insists on seeing you]
honour."
Passing out to the front door I found Kathleen, ai
old cloak thrown over her, and the hood falling bad
over her shoulders, leaving her head bare, and he:
beautiful brown hair falling wildly around her pallic
face.
She drew me aside, and said anxiously : —
FATHER ANTHONY 217
"Your honour is going to Casilebar? " .
"I am,* I answered. "What is it you want to
say to me?*
"I want you to come to my brother," she replied.
•'Sure I think he's dying."
"Dying?" I repeated. "He was well enough
when I saw him yesterday. What has happened? "
Thus urged, the girl informed me that on the
previous evening during her temporary absence Eory
had quitted the house. On her return she found the
place empty and a box containing a small sum of
money broken open. She ran out searching for the
man everywhere, but night had fallen, and it was
pouring with rain, and she returned home in despair.
About midnight she was startled by a sound outside
the door, opening which she found her brother lying
insensible on the ground.
"He was dead drunk, your honour," she pro-
ceeded, "and soaked to the skin, and bleeding from
the old wound. I dragged him to the fireside, and
just then one of the neighbours came in and told me
he'd seen Eory that night in Kilsyth, drinking in
the shebeen. He'd walked into the town, wake as
he was, and drunk and drunk till he could drink no
more, and then he'd crawled back home through the
rain; and sure I think he's got his death this time,
for he's lying like a corpse on the bed, and his life
seems just ebbing away ! "
I took Kathleen beside me on the car and ordered
218 FATHER ANTHONY
Andy to drive to the farm as rapidly as possible.
Entering the house, I found the man lying half-
dressed upon the bed, while an old woman sat on a
stool close to him, moaning and "keening " as if he
were already dead. I dismissed the woman and
made a rapid examination. Kathleen's fears were
right; he had received his death-blow indeed, and
was rapidly sinking. His breath, loaded with the
fumes of drink, was drawn weakly yet rapidly, and
his heart was fluttering like a wind-blown leaf.
Again and again I moistened his dry lips with
water; at last, to my intense relief, he opened his
eyes.
For a time he looked at me in dazed wonder, then
his lips moved, but I heard no sound ; I bent close
to him, and he whispered : —
"Is it dying I am?"
I nodded my head.
" You have not long to live, but if there is any-
thing on your mind you have still time to speak it."
Our whispered conversation, short and low as it
was, attracted the attention of the girl, who now
entered the room. She went to her brother, bent
over him, and put her hand on his hair.
"Rory, acushla," she whispered, "spake out now,
since God Almighty is goin' to take ye. Sure Mas-
ter Michael was always very good to us ! "
The man closed his eyes for a moment; when he
opened them again they were dim and wet.
FATHER ANTHONY 219
" Send for the soggarth," he moaned.
Hurriedly scrawling a few lines in my pocket-
book, I tore out the leaf and gave it to Andy, bid-
ding him to go at once to Castlebar and give the
writing to Miss Craig. Then I turned to the girl.
"Will you fetch Father Anthony? " I said.
She hesitated, so I added : —
" I will watch your brother till you return ; if you
do not go at once it may be too late."
She looked at the ghastly face upon the pillow
and seemed to realise that I spoke the truth ; with
a great sob she turned aside and hurriedly quitted
the house.
The expression on the man's face now became
more peaceful. He did not speak again. Seeing
him so utterly exhausted I moistened his lips with
a little weak brandy and water, and it seemed to
give him strength.
CHAPTER XX
For several hours I kept watch by the bedside.
The night had now fallen, and Kathleen had not re-
turned. At last she rushed in wild with excite-
ment.
"His reverence is not at home," she cried. "He
has gone to Castlebar."
"I feared as much," was my remark. *'You
know he is called as a witness against his brother,
who is to be tried immediately."
"Sure he* 11 never spake a word against him," said
the girl ; " but it's here his reverence should be this
night, not away yonder. Maybe Father John will
come along! I've sent word for him to Mylrea."
As she spoke the man on the bed opened his eyes
and looked wearily at his sister.
"Is the soggarth coming?" he moaned. "The
cold breath is on me and the doctor says I'm dying."
The tears rolled down her cheeks as she bent over
him and replied : —
"He's coming, Rory, he's coming; but maybe
you'd like to speak now and ease your heart, acush-
la ! Didn't his reverence say that God would never
forgive ye if ye died with the word unspoken? "
FATHER ANTHONY 221
"I'll spake to no one but the soggarth," returned
the man, with something of his old look of sullen
determination. "It's him that must anoint me and
give me absolution before I die."
He sank back on the pillows and closed his eyes
again. Kathleen touched my arm and led me to the
farther end of the room, where we talked in a whis-
per.
"Will he last till morning? " she asked eagerly.
"Oh, yes, I think so, and perhaps over to-mor-
row; but he's sinking, and he'll never rise from the
bed again."
She looked at me wildly, and answered in a voice
choked with tears : —
" Glory be to God ! Then he'll spake to the priest
and do his bidding, and the Lord will save his soul ! "
There was nothing now to be done but to wait
patiently, so I strolled out to the kitchen and took
a seat by the lEire, while Kathleen watched by the
bedside. An hour passed thus while I sat revolving
in my mind all the strange events in which I had
been actor as well as spectator since my arrival in
Ireland. I thought of Eileen, and of the message
which I had sent her by my servant Andy, a mes-
sage summoning her to come, if possible, to that
imhappy house without delay. Would she come?
And if she came would help or solace reach her from
the lips of the dying man?
It was close on midnight when there was a knock
222 FATHER ANTHONY
at the door. I rose and opened it. Father Johcu^ — -^
entered and shook me by the hand.
I placed my finger on my lips and pointed to tL- — -^
inner room. Tlien in a whisper I explained th- — ®
state of affairs. Without another word the pries -^^
made his way to the bedside, while Kathleen rosc-^'^
and saluted him respectfully.
"Look up, Eory/she cried softly, turning toward^^^
the bed. "Sure his reverence is here, God blesj
him, and waits to spake to you ! "
The man started and opened his eyes, but when
they fell on Father John his face wore an expression
of deep disappointment.
"Look up, my poor boy, look up," said the priest.
"Sure Fm grieved in my heart to see you in this
trouble, but it's the road we all must take, Eory
Bournes, and I'm here to help you through and to
receive your confession."
"It's Father Anthony I want," moaned the man
irritably.
"Father Anthony's in Castlebar," answered Father
John, " and by that token I am your priest, my son,
and you must speak your sins to your own clergy 1
. . . Clear the room, if you please, and lave us
alone," he added, preparing to divest himself of his
overcoat and producing from the pocket of the same
a small parcel, containing, as I afterwards foimd, the
stole and materials for administering Extreme Unc-
tion.
FATHER ANTHONY 223
I was struck by the solemnity of the little priest's
demeanour. He was no longer the man whom I had
previously encountered, almost comic in his boister-
ous geniality. He was the priest indeed, clothed in
all the dignity of his sublime vocation.
We left the room, closing the door softly behind
us. I resumed my seat by the fire, while Kathleen
crouched on a stool opposite to me, sobbing and
hiding her face in her hands. All was still in the
house, save for the murmur of voices from within.
At last, after half an hour had passed, the door of
the inner room opened, and Father John with the
stole thrown over his ordinary walking garments,
stood on the threshold. He appeared greatly ex-
cited, and his usually florid face was ghastly pale.
"Come in," he cried, in a stem voice, and we
followed him into the room. The dying man was
sitting up in bed, supporting himself on his left
arm, and looked wildly and imploringly at the
priest, who again approached the bedside.
"Dr. Sutherland," said Father John, pointing to
the bed, "have you told that man that he is going to
face his Maker and that he has only a little time
to live?"
"He knows it," I replied.
The priest gazed at the man and proceeded in a
low, clear voice : —
"You hear that, Eory Bournes? The hand of
death is on ye, and you know it. Spake then, in
224 FATHER ANTHONY
the name of 6od^ and call them present to witness
the truth that you've told to me ! "
The dying man groaned and bent forward as if tc^
clutch at the priest, who drew back sternly.
"Sure I've confessed, your reverence, and it'^*
yourself will give me absolution ! "
"Absolve ye, is it?" cried Father John, pointing
at him with his forefinger. "Will God absolve ye^
Rory Bournes, when you're dying with all your sin^
upon your soul ? I'm giving you your last chance
to make your peace with God and man ! "
"Tell them yourself, your reverence. I'll neveir
contradict ye ! "
" Is it me ? " said the priest indignantly. " Do yoiK.
dare to ask me to break the seal of confession, and
lose my own soul alive? What the dying man.
says is buried in the heart of his clergy ; but I'nr
asking you, as a man and a sinful brother, to speak:
the truth with a free and willing heart. Rory, my"
man," he added more gently, "there's forgiveness
and grace abounding for them that repent; but for
him that dies in wrath and leaves his sin upon his
brother's head, there's neither forgiveness nor grace,
but sorrow and shame everlasting ! Spake out, Rory^
Bournes, and then Father John will absolve ye, and
Kathleen here will wake your soul to glory, and
you'll be buried like a Christian man."
The appeal was useless, for as the priest spoke the
man uttered a wild groan and swooned away. I
FATHER ANTHONY 225
^ent to the bedside, and bending over him, endeav-
ured to restore him, but he continued insensible,
nd I almost believed that his last hour had come.
He lay thus till daybreak, while we watched be-
[de him, expecting every moment to be his last.
lS the first dim rays of the winter's morning crept
ita the room Father John divested himself of the
x>le and passed out of the house, saying as he
-^ent: "1*11 be waiting outside the door; call me if
le sense comes back to him." It was clear to me
lat what he had heard under the seal of confession
ad shocked him terribly, for he was strangely sad
nd silent, and it was only with a great effort that
e subdued his agitation.
Bareheaded, he paced up and down in front of the
ouse, while I remained by the unconscious man,
dministering restoratives from time to time. At
ist, when the light of the cold winter morning
ompletely filled the chamber, the man recovered
onsciousness and looked wildly into my face.
"The soggarth," he gasped. "Is his reverence
here?"
I signed to Kathleen who stood weeping near the
ioor, and she disappeared.
"You are better now, my man? " I said gently.
"Sure I thought I was dead and gone," he replied
aintly. "Bid Father Anthony come to me. It's
father Anthony I want, for it's him that has prom-
sed to absolve me ! "
16
226 FATHER ANTHONY
As he spoke Father John entered the room, and
again, as on the priest's first appearance, the man's
face wore an expression of gloomy disappointment;
but, suddenly, the wild eyes brightened, an eager
cry came from the parched mouth, and I saw, to my
astonishment, that the parish priest was not alone.
In the doorway stood the tall figure of the curate,
Anthony Creenan, who looked himself as gaunt and
livid as the dying man.
Not a word was spoken, but with a wave of the
hand Father Anthony motioned me to leave the
room ; I did so at once, leaving the two priests alone
with my patient. I walked to the open door, where
Kathleen joined me and whispered : —
"Sure he'll spake now. 'Twas Father An-
thony he was wanting, and glory be to God he's
here!"
Glad to get into the open air, I strolled up and
down outside the house. It was a dull, cheerless
day, and a thin rain was beginning to fall, darken-
ing the barren moorland and veiling the distant sea.
Suddenly I came face to face with my man Andy,
who appeared from behind the house, where, he
explained, the horse and car were waiting.
"I took your honour's message," he went on to
explain, "and sure I found the poor lady heart-
broken ; but she bade me hasten back and tell your
honour she would come at once. And coming out
of the town I met Father Anthony, and when I told
FATHER ANTHONY 227
liim what had happened, and how your honour had
sent for Miss Eileen, he came back wid me, and sure
he's here ! "
The presence of the young priest was thus ac-
counted for, and scarcely had Andy finished his
explanation, when I saw in the distance the two-
horse jaunting car belonging to Craig Castle driving
at full speed towards the farm. I ran down the lane
to meet it ; as I appeared the horses were reined up
suddenly, and Eileen sprang down with outstretched
hands.
As we turned back to the house, leaving the car
to follow us at a walk, I told her rapidly what had
happened, and expressed my belief that the dying
man had a confession to make which I believed
might have reference to the affair of her father's
murder. Pale, but firm, with tightly compressed
lips, she listened to what I had to say, sighed wear-
ily, and said : —
"There was time, for the trial will not come on
before to-morrow ; so I thought it best to drive over
without delay."
It was clear enough that she was almost hopeless,
but I cheered her as well as I could, and we entered
the house together. The door of the inner room was
now open, but Kathleen stood alone in the kitchen ;
when her eyes fell on Eileen a dark shadow fell on
her face, but she curtsied respectfully and motioned
us towards the inner door.
228 FATHER ANTHONY
"Sure they're asking for you in yonder," she said
in a low voice, and then turned her face away.
We entered the room. Father Anthony stood
erect by the bed, while Father John, approaching us
on tiptoe, took Eileen gently by the hand.
The man lay as I had left him, but his cheeks
were now suffused with a hectic flush, and his eyes
were open and fixed with a strange expression on
the face of the young priest. But the entrance of
Eileen did not escape him, and he shuddered and
shrank away, turning to Father Anthony as if for
help.
" Spake to her, your reverence," he said.
Father Anthony, who had not even glanced in our
direction, replied in a strange, broken voice : —
"You know I cannot speak. I have taken my
oath before God, and I cannot break it ! "
"Amen to that!" murmured Father John, cross-
ing himself.
The man gave a cry, and making a superhuman
effort, raised himself from his pillows — and glared
wildly at me.
"Doctor," he cried hoarsely, "is it God's truth
I'm going to die? "
"It is the truth," I said.
His feeble strength gave way again, and he sank
back exhausted.
"Sure I'm not afraid to die," he moaned, "but I
can't face the gallows. I never thought they'd want
FATHER ANTHONY 229
to hang an innocent man. It's me that should be
there instead of him. Master Michael never did a
cJirty deed to any living soul, God bless him ; 'twas
Tne that struck the master down ! "
He paused, and there was silence. I saw the
young priest make the sign of the cross upon his
breast, and cover his eyes with his thin white hand.
lEileen shuddered, and seemed about to faint, while
IKathleen stole across the room, and, sobbing wildly,
Icnelt at the bedside.
"Is that you, Kathleen? " he moaned, and as she
sobbed in answer to his question, he continued
wearily. "Sure I never meant to do it, but the
luck was always against me, and the devil was
whispering in my ear. The day the master was kilt
I was in a bad mood. I was out drinking at the
shebeens all day, and in the afternoon I came home
half-mad. Kathleen was out o' the way, so I sat
down and had a sleep by the fire. When I woke
up I wanted more drink, and I searched about the
place to see if Kathleen had got some hidden away.
Well, I found half a bottle, and after that I found
the gun — Master Michael's gun. I took the gun
and went out to look for a hare on the mountain.**
"But how," I asked, "did that gun come into your
possession ? "
" Sure I'd gone up the mountain at break o' day
and found that Master Michael was ofif to Kilsyth,
and the house was empty, for Mrs. Creenan was
230 FATHBB AKTHONT
away down the valley, and there was only Norah in
the kitchen; and I knew where the gun was kept,
and sure Mr. Michetel had promised to lend it to me
for a day's shooting, and I crept in and took it and
ran away with it home, and I hid it in the turf stack
behind the house, where I might find it convanient;
and after that, as I told ye, I went on to the fair."
He paused again, and his cheeks grew ghastly.
I took out my flask and gave him. some brandy.
He closed his eyes for a moment, and again that
death-like stillness reigned in the room. The girl
had ceased her sobbing, and the priest had uncovered
his face, but neither spoke. I put my fingers on the
man's pulse, and he opened his eyes, then drew a
long sigh, and spoke again.
"When I was out on the moimtain I saw the
master lighting from the mail car to take the short
cut home across the bog, and I lay down, not want-
ing him to see me, but sure enough he came straight
to the place where I was lying, and when he saw me
and the gun in my hand he began blackguarding me,
and told me I was a poacher and a thief, and he
meant to have the law on me. Well, thin the drink
was in me, and I up with the gun as he was walk-
ing away from me, and he staggered and ran over
the bog to the road, and there he fell down on his
face stone dead ! "
We listened in horrified silence as he continued,
moaning out the terrible words : —
"HK STAGGERKO AND
THE NEW YOM
PUBLIC UBRART
FATHER ANTHONY 231
''Sure God Almighty knows, if I could have
brought the master back to life then and there, I
would, but it was too late. I looked at him, and I
thought o' the gallows, and sure I felt afraid to die :
and then — and then — I came home ! "
Again he closed his eyes, again I moistened his
lips with brandy and begged him to proceed.
"Sure it's Kathleen that knows the rest," he said.
"When I came home I found her sitting by the
fire, and the mad fear was on me and I told her
what I'd done; and when she heard I'd kilt the
master she took the reaping-hook from the nail in
the wall and sprang at me. to have my life, and I
held up my arm to bate her off and the reaping-
hook ripped up my arm, and T fell down bleeding
like a pig; and when my sister saw what she'd done
she came to her sinses and helped me to my bed, and
tried to bind up the wound ; but sure I should have
bled to death that night if his reverence Father
Anthony hadn't come in by chance, God bless him !
He stopped the blood and bound up my wound and
sat by my bedside. Then I thought I was dying, so
I confessed my sin and asked his reverence to give
me absolution, but he only groaned and rushed
away. But at daybreak he came back to me white
and wild, and told me Master Michael was took
up for doing what I had done. He begged and
prayed me to give myself up and to save my
soul alive, but, God help me, I was afraid of the
232 FATHER ANTHONY
gallows, and I never thought Master Michael would
be hanged."
Ghastly pale he fell upon the bed. Kathleen had
risen to her feet, pale and fearless now; she bent
over him and touched him softly on the cheek. As
she did so he turned his face towards Eileen and
held forth his trembling hand.
"Sure I never meant to do it," he repeated tremu-
lously, "and— and-and I'm dying! "
I looked at Eileen. She still sat where Father
John had placed her when we entered the room —
her hands clasped nervously lay in her lap, her
white face was turned towards the man, she saw the
hand stretched appealingly towards her, but she
made no attempt to take it.
" My father, my poor father ! " she cried, covering
her face with her hands.
Father John stood near her, his honest eyes full
of sympathetic tears. As he bent over her, mur-
muring a word of comfort, my attention was at-
tracted to Father Anthony. He had been standing
near the bed, his face white as death, his form erect
and rigid, his ears drinking in every word of the
strange confession ; but suddenly he raised his arms
and clutched at the air, tottered for a moment, and
then without a sound fell forward on his face.
CHAPTEE XXI
The mystery which had puzzled me so long was
solved at last. Having no doubt whatever in my
mind that the dying man spoke the truth I could
not compliment myself on my own ingenuity; for
all my suspicions had melted away like smoke. I
saw now how cruelly unjust I had been to the
young priest, and I realised, in a flash as it were,
how terrible had been his struggle to keep his holy
oath, and yet to help his brother whom he so dearly
loved. His dread of visiting his brother, his secret
visits to the man Bournes, his wild despair and sor-
row as the dreary days crept on, his avoidance of
Eileen, all were now clearly explained. My heart
yearned to him in pity, while my spirit bent in
reverence before his pure and gentle nature, so firm
in its sinless strength.
He had fallen in a dead faint, his face upon the
ground. Bending over him I raised him gently in
my arms and supported his head on my knee. At
my request, Kathleen brought me a bowl of water,
the contents of which I sprinkled over his pale face.
His lips moved, but his eyes, which were wide open,
were fixed on vacancy. Then, assisted by Father
234 FATHER ANTHONY
John, I carried him into the outer room, and threw
open the door that the cool air might blow in upon
his brow.
"Holy Saints preserve him," cried Father John.
" I love him as if he were mj own son, and it's my-
self that knows he's an angel bom, barrin' the wings.
Look up, my son, look up, and speak to Father
John."
The boy (for indeed, he was little more) seemed
to hear the voice, and turning his dark eyes towards
his friend, his pale, beautiful face broke into a
smile, like the smile of a little child, and he reached
out his hand, which the other took and kissed, fair-
ly breaking down over it and crying. It was a
touching sight, revealing as it did the deep affection
which the two priests of God, so different in age,
temperament, and character, bore to each other; and
I confess that I was strongly moved.
In a few minutes Father Anthony had perfectly
recovered and stood up, supported by the little
priest.
"You're better now, my son?" said Father John
anxiously. " Sure it's a sore trial the Lord has put
upon ye, but you've come through it like a sainted
man."
As he spoke Eileen entered from the inner room.
The young priest did not shrink from her now, but
held up his head, and looked her sadly in the face.
"All this time," she said, quietly and almost bit-
FATHER ANTHONY 235
terly, "you knew the truth; you knew that Michael
was innocent ; you knew that this man was a mur-
derer, and yet you did not speak ! ''
For a moment the young priest shrank back,
startled and pained ; then, wiithout averting his eyes,
he replied quietly : —
" I could not speak. I was bound by my oath ! "
"There are some oaths which should not be kept,"
returned Eileen, "just as there are some things
which cannot be pardoned."
"Miss Craig," replied Father Anthony, "you do
not know what you are saying. I have kept my
covenant to God, but how have I kept it? — what
has the keeping of it meant to me? Besides my
mother, the only living soul I have to care for is
Michael, and you know well what my brother is to
me. Yet I have been doomed to see him dragged
into the very shadow of the scaffold. I have been
tortured almost beyond my strength. Ah, God for-
give me," he cried, raising his pale face to heaven,
"there have been times when in my agony I have
torn my priest's robes and almost broken my crucifix,
saying, ' There is no God, or such things could not
be!'"
He paused, and looked at her imploringly, his
eyes dim with tears.
"Sure he speaks the truth," cried Father John,
"and God will reward him."
Sadly and intently Father Anthony continued to
236 FATHER ANTHONY
regard her, until suddenly she lost all self-com-
mand.
"Father Anthony, forgive me!* she cried, and
sank sobbing at his feet.
The young priest placed his hand upon her head.
"Sure I've nothing to forgive," he said gently.
" God bless you for loving Michael so much, and be-
lieving in him in spite of all.*
Within a very few hours Miss Craig had returned
to Castlebar, bearing with her the news of Rory
Bournes' confession. The man lingered on till
next day, and a written statement being prepared he
signed it before witnesses, of whom I was one.
Information had, of course, to be given to the
authorities, who, seeing that he was too ill to be
removed, placed a police guard around the farm and
held him under formal arrest. His mind unbur-
dened of his secret, he seemed now quite indiflferent
to earthly things, and sank gradually, soothed not a
little by the spiritual ministrations of Father John.
Mr. O'Flannigan, the solicitor, lost no time in
preparing the way for Michael Creenan's vindica-
tion; but many tiresome preliminaries had to be
gone through before the prisoner could be set at
liberty. On the day fixed for the trial he was
brought into court; Eileen sat in the well by the
side of her solicitor, and close to the dock, grasping
the prisoner's hand, stood Father Anthony.
The counsel for the Crown at once rose and in-
FATHER ANTHONY 237
timated that he was instructed to withdraw from
the prosecution.
"I understand/ said the judge, glancing at the
documents before him, " that a confession has been
made by the real criminal, and that it is supported
by the evidence of several independent parties,
several of whom are now present.*
"That is so, my lord," replied the counsel for the
defence.
" One of these, gentlemen," said the judge, address-
ing the jury, "is the daughter of the unfortunate gen-
tleman who was so cruelly murdered ; another is the
prisoner's brother, the Eev. Anthony Creenan."
All eyes were turned on the pathetic figures — the
tall handsome youth in the dock and the pale dark-
eyed man who stood close beneath him, clasping his
hand.
"Call Father Creenan," said the judge.
Amid breathless silence the young priest made his
way to the witness table and was duly sworn.
"You are the prisoner's brother, and a priest of
the Eoman Catholic Church? "
Father Anthony bowed his head.
"According to the depositions before me you have
been aware from the first of your brother's inno-
cence, having received on the very night of the
murder the confession of the guilty party."
"Yes," answered Father Anthony.
" You did not, however, make any communication
238 FATHER ANTHONY
to the authorities? You did not even make the
slightest attempt to exonerate the prisoner, although
you knew that he was about to be tried for his lifei
May I ask, Father Creenan, if you would still have
preserved silence, even if no confession of guilt had
been made, and your unfortunate brother had been
condemned, as he might have been, to a disgraceful
death ? "
There was a pause. The young priest glanced
towards the prisoner, and, then raising himself erect,
made the sign of the cross.
"The secret -was not mine," he answered. "I
should not have spoken."
A murmur went through the court.
"Not even to save your brother's life? " demanded
the judge sternly.
" Not even to save my brother's life ! " was the
reply. And as the murmur deepened the priest
continued : " My brother knows that I would have
died for him, but I could not, even for his sake,
have been unfaithful to my vows. I trusted in God
— my trust is justified — and God has saved my
brother!"
The murmur changed to a cheer; men shouted
and women sobbed ; then a cry came from the dock
and rang out in the court.
" God bless you, Anthony ! " cried Michael.
"Sure I'd never have asked you to break your
oath!"
FATHBR ANTHONY 239
An indescribable tumult followed, and in the
midst of it stood the two young men, looking with
infinite aflfection at each other. Even the judge
was deeply aflfected. When there was silence again
he said quietly : —
"Under the circumstances, there is no reason
whatever to detain the prisoner. As a matter of
form he will enter into an undertaking to take his
trial again if called upon, but in the meantime he
must be set at liberty.''
A few minutes later Michael Creenan sprang from
the dock into the arms of Father Anthony, and, amid
a scene of the wildest enthusiasm, the brothers left
the court together.
CHAPTER XXII
The man who had killed Mr. Craig lay dead in the
lonely farm, still guarded formally by the police,
though he had escaped the punishment of his crime,
and was far beyond the reach of any human law.
During my residence in Ireland I had been to many
a wake, but to none so strange or terrible as this
one. On the bed in the inner room, where he had
so long fought for life, the dead man lay in his
grave clothes, his eyes closed, his face washed clean,
and his hair and beard smoothed and trimmed by
his sister's hands; the usual saucerful of tobacco
was placed upon his breast, and on the table near
the bed were clay pipes, glasses, and a bottle of
spirits; but Kathleen Bournes was practically the
only mourner. From time to time one of the peas-
antry would enter bareheaded, nod to Kathleen,
glance at the corpse, and steal quietly away; but
there was neither "keening* nor rejoicing, such as
are common at wakes among the Irish peasantry,
for outside in the kitchen sat two armed constables,
and the shadow of a terrible crime was on the mis-
erable house.
Twice during the three days of the "waking* I
walked over to the place, and on each occasion I
FATHER ANTHONY 241
found Kathleen sitting alone; her face pale as death
but perfectly calm. She was dressed in her best
Sunday attire, and had taken unusual pains with her
person. On her head was a white cap, completely
concealing her hair. On my first visit I said only
a few words of trite consolation, but during my sec-
ond visit, on the third day, I drew a chair near to
hers and spoke to her more freely. She seemed to
appreciate my sympathy, although it awakened in
her little or no emotion ; she seemed indeed beyond
emotion of any sort, save the dull strong sense of
utter despair. Only once, when I spoke of the dead
man, did she emerge from her lethargy, with a
vestige of her old passionate manner.
"He was a good brother to me,** she said, ''and
when the drink wasn't in him, your honour, he was
a dacent. God-fearing man. Sure he was mad with
drink when he lifted his hand against the master,
but he confessed his sin to the priest, and his rever-
ence absolved him, and I'm thinking the Lord will
forgive him! Sure it's a poor wake he's having,"
she added with a ghastly smile, "but it's better than
dying in shame on the gallows — praise be to God
who saved Eory from that ! It's strange to see him
that was so bold and wild lying quiet there, with
his hands folded and his eyes closed as if he were
asleep; but sure there's one left to wake his soul to
glory, and that one's me! I never loved him so
well, your honour, as I do this day, for I know the
16
/
242 FATHER ANTHONY
sin's taken off him, and he's kneeling at the throne
o'God!"
She spoke in a low tone, almost in a whisper, but
every word was clear and distinct, and her voice
scarcely broke, but there was a world of pathos in
the still wistful face, and the eyes were dim and red
as if she had wept in secret.
Deeply touched and impressed, I took her hand
in mine and said : —
"What shall you do now he is gone? "
"Sure I shall stay on here," she replied, "till my
own time comes, and maybe it won't be long ! "
"All alone?" I asked.
" Yes, sure. The house will be mine, and the bit
o' land, and there'll be bite and sup enough for a lone
woman."
"But you are young still," I said, "with all the
world before you. Some day, and soon I hope,
you'll forget all this sorrow and enter upon a new
life. That's why I asked you if you meant to re-
main here. The place is so desolate — the associa-
tions connected with it are so terrible "
"It's my home for all that," the girl interposed
quietly.
" But it won't be always your home. By-and-by,
when you marry "
Her face flushed slightly, but her expression did
not change; the same dreamy, far-off expression
dwelt in her eyes.
FATHER ANTHONY 243
"Is it me?" she asked. "Sure I will never
marry ! what man would look at the likes of me —
the sister of him that's lying there, with the shame
0* murder on his name? And sure, if the man came
along, he'd find no welcome here."
" When a little time has past," I persisted, "you'll
think dififerently."
She smiled wearily, and shook her head.
"I feel like a widdy woman," she answered;
"tired and old, and only fit to sit by the hearth and
look at the faces in the tire."
Just then the door opened, and an old man, the
same whom I had once found in the house disput-
ing with Kathleen, crept into the room and ap-
proached the bedside. He gazed silently at the
dead man, crossed himself and heaved a heavy sigh ;
then, still without a word, he approached the table
and poured himself out a glass of spirits. Kathleen
watched him quietly as he drank oflf the spirits and
wiped his mouth with the cufF of his ragged coat.
"He's dead and gone entirely," the old man mut-
tered, fixing his shining eyes on Kathleen.
" Sure enough," she answered.
The old man groaned.
" Then he'll niver be paying me back the three
pound of good money he kept when he sold my mare
at Kilsyth. Ochone ! ochone ! "
"Speak low," said Kathleen, a dark shadow on
her handsome face.
244 FATHER ANTHONY
"It's the truth I'm telling," whined the other.
** He kept the three pound to spend in drink, and I'll
never see it this side of purgatory ! "
And with trembling hand he poured himself out
another glass of spirits and drank it ofif.
Kathleen watched him, and the frown on her face
deepened.
" Hearken to me, Anthony Linney ! " she said
quietly. "My brother Eory was a just man, and
before he died he bade me pay all his debts. Come
to me after the burying, and you shall have the
money."
"Is it in earnest ye are? " cried the man, looking
at her eagerly. " Three pound, and never a shilling
less?"
Kathleen nodded, and chuckling feebly to himself
the old man left the room. I rose and held out my
hand.
"I wish I could be of service to you," I said. "I
don't like the thought of you remaining here and
brooding over the past."
"Your honour's good and kind," was her reply,
" but no man can help me, and sure I don't complain."
I left her seated alone in the room, her bright
tearless eyes fixed wearily on the dead man's face.
As I passed out through the kitchen the two con-
stables rose and saluted me, military fashion.
All that day the girl's face haunted me, and my
heart went out in pity to the lonely creature, left in
FATHER ANTHONY 245
the world without a friend. I knew well that her
heart was still full of its hopeless passion for
Michael Creenan, and small as was my faith in
feminine fidelity, I felt sure that in this case the
woman's devotion would be permanent.
I spent the evening at Craig Castle, and found the
shadow there also. Although she was relieved from
all anxiety on her lover's account, Eileen was sad
and very silent. The suflfering she had undergone,
with its prolonged mental strain, had sadly tried her
strength, and I did not disguise my anxiety concern-
ing her physical condition.
" If you will be guided by me," I said, " you will go
away from Mylrea as soon as possible, and remain
away for some time. I'm your physician in ordi-
nary, remember, and shall be very angry if my in-
junctions are disobeyed."
"I am going to obey them," she answered. "I
shall stay with some friends in Dublin." She
added, looking me anxiously in the face : " Michael
is going away too. We shall not meet again till the
winter is over."
"And then?"
"And then, I don't know. Sometimes I feel as if
it was wicked to care so much for him. My poor
father did not wish me to marry Michael, and —
and "
She paused, turning her face away to hide her tears.
"My dear Miss Craig," I said, "your father, had
246 FATHER ANTHONY
he lived, would probably have changed his mind;
and romember, you owe some amends to Michael
Creenan for the unjust suspicions which have caused
him so much misery. Consult your own happiness,
and his — that is my advice; frankly, I did not
think you would need it, for I understood that you
had resolved to marry."
"Sure I've promised," she answered, "and I'm
going to keep my word. But not yet — not yet!
My father! My poor father! It seems all so
strange, so terrible — more terrible than ever now,
when there is time to think it all over."
Presently she added : —
" They buried that man to-day. I know you have
been over to the farm. Did you see the girl, his
sister? "
I answered in the afl&rmative, and expressed the
great pity which Kathleen's desolate condition had
awakened in me.
"You are right," said Eileen sadly; "she is much
to be pitied. I am sorry for her. What will she
do?"
"She proposes to remain where she is."
"Alone?"
" Quite alone. I tried to persuade her to leave
the place, but my persuasions were useless."
No more was said on the subject, but I was glad
to see that Eileen felt no bitterness towards Kath-
leen Bournes.
FATHKE ANTHONY 247
Do what I might, I could not get away from the
thought of Eathleeo, and the more I thought of her
the greater grew my sympathy and pity. It so
happened, however, that on my return home I found
waiting for me in my lodgings the very man whom
I had thought more than once of consulting in my
dilemma. Standing in the widow's kitchen, toast-
ing his back at the fire, and conversing afifably with
my landlady, was Father John. I knew that he
was, with all his eccentricities and peculiarities, a
shrewd man of the world, thoroughly acquainted
with the character of the peasantry, and capable in
all matters connected with them of giving very
sound advice.
"I was passing by, doctor," he said, "and I
thought I'd look in and have a talk with ye. I've
been on my legs all day up among the mountains,
with nothing but black bogs to look on and poor
ignorant souls to spake to, and by that token 'twill
be a relief to converse sociably with a gentleman of
education and discernment like yourself! "
I bowed to the compliment, and invited the priest
into my sanctum, where I speedily made him as
comfortable as bis heart could desire. Poor Father
Ooly ! He had only one weakness, and that was
for distilled mountain dew, in the form of punch for
preference, and, after all, it was a weakness which
never made him forget his duty or his self-respect.
Seated in an arm-chair before me, with a bumper of
248 FATHER ANTHONY
hot punch in his hand, he beamed upon me genially,
and then, as if greatly tickled, threw back his head
and laughed merrily.
** What is amusing you? * I asked, lighting a cigar.
He slapped his plump thigh and laughed again.
** I was thinking of Mulligan, sir ; and how you've
interfered with the rascal's vocation ! I met him on
the mountain this morning. ' How's that English
interloper?' says he. 'Mulligan,* says I, 'Dr.
Sutherland is a friend of mine, and I warn ye to
spake of him civilly.' Then he swore, sir, and said
he wished ye at the devil ! The poor man's pray-
ing night and day that you'll clear out, sir, and let
him kill his patients dacently ! "
I expressed my sorrow at having acted rather un-
professionally.
**Dr. Mulligan is clever, I suppose? I mean as a
physician," I inquired.
"He's clever enough when he's sober," returned
Father John, "but he drinks, sir — and drink is
poison ! " Here he lifted the tumbler of punch to
his lips and drank heartily. "But he's cleverer
with horses and cattle than doctoring human bodies.
Never heed him, sir; he bears no malice in his heart,
and when ye meet him again he'll taste with ye like
a Christian ! "
"Well," I said, "I shan't be here long to darken
his sunshine. I have my own patients to attend to
over yonder in London. I'm glad you called to-
FATHBR ANTHONY 249
night, for I want to ask your advice about that poor
girl, the sister of the man who has just been buried.
It seems terrible that she should remain in her pres-
ent home, with the shadow of her brother's crime
for ever over her. Naturally, I suppose, she will be
avoided by everybody, and her life, I should think,
will be unendurable.*
"She's a strange girl, is Kathleen," returned
Father John thoughtfully. " I've talked to her my-
self, and tried to fathom her disposition, but sure
it's like trying to find the bottom of a fairy well.
But make your mind easy, doctor. 'Twill be her
own fault if the neighbours give her the go by, and
if she liked, she could have a husband to-morrow for
the asking."
"Indeed?"
"Yes, indeed, doctor; and I'm betraying no secret
when I tell you that one Anthony Linney has already
spoken to me about her and asked me to spake a
word for him ! "
"Anthony Linney! " I repeated. "Do you mean
an old man who lives only a stone's throw from her
house — a wretched old creature, with one leg in the
grave?"
" That's the man ! " cried the priest with twinkling
eyes; "and though you may think him wretched,
he's a rich man, sir, with money in the bank. The
old rascal admires Kathleen, not to spake of the bit
of land and the bit of money that Eory has left her,
250 FATHER ANTHONY
and though he's buried two wives already he's able
and willing to take a third."
I expressed my indignation at the mere idea of
such an union, greatly to the little priest's amuse-
ment; but he proceeded to assure me that there was
not the least danger of Kathleen listening to a pro-
posal from such a quarter.
" It's my opinion, doctor, she'd brain the man if
he spoke to her, and by that token would have an
ugly welcome for his messenger. She's a queer girl
entirely, and the man isn't handy that would take
her fancy."
" She informed me to-day," I said, " that she would
never marry."
"Never's a long time, doctor," returned Father
John, helping himself to a fresh supply of punch
and screwing up his eyes at the glass. " I've heard
many a colleen say that same, and change her mind
in a week. It's not like a young, fresh, handsome
girl like Kathleen Bournes to sit mourning- for
ever ! "
"Then the circumstances of her brother's crime
would not stand in her way if she was inclined to
marry? "
"No, sir," answered the priest; "and why should
it? Sure the poor girl wasn't to blame; and besides
that, 'twas a thing done in drink and not in cold
blood. If Kathleen only raised her little finger all
the marrying boys would be round her in a jiffy.
FATHER ANTHONY 251
But, as I was saying, she's queer, and not like the
rest of the peasant girls hereabouts. She set her
fancy on the wrong man (and I needn't name him,
for ye know him), and 'twill be a long time before
she'll forget that same. She's a woman, however,
and a woman always sees double, as the saying is !
First she'll mope, and then she'll weary, and then
she'll see the right man come along and raise her
heart and her longing in the way of Nature."
"But in the meantime," I said, not a little amused
at my companion's scepticism, "she will be terribly
lonely."
"True enough," said Father John, "and sure I
thought of that yesterday, when I advised her to go
to Westport, where there is a home for good Catho-
lics in trouble, and told her the Sister Superior
would welcome her with a line from me. She'd
find kind friends there, and have the consolations of
religion, and by and by, when the trouble was
healed, she could come back home."
"What did she say?"
"She said she'd think it over, poor creature!
I've a notion her thoughts are turning to Heaven
for comfort, for she asked me if the Church was
open to receive her, in case she wanted to leave
the world behind her altogether."
"Become a nun, do you mean? " I asked.
Father John nodded.
" That hardly coincides with your suggestion that
i
252 FATHER ANTHONY
she would one day find the right man," I said, smil-
ing.
Father John looked serious. The smile faded
from his face, and he put his tumbler softly down
on the table.
"That's different, sir," he said, with a certain
solemnity. ** There's no two ways for either woman
or man, and when the Church opens its arms for a
poor unhappy soul, the troubles and temptations of
this world vanish, and the peace of the Lord comes
down. I've a notion, too, that Kathleen is one of
the sort that doesn't easily forget, without the help
of religion. She'd be happier and better in that
life, maybe, than out in the world of men."
I made no answer, for I could not think without
a shudder of the exchange he spoke of, remembering
as I did so vividly the girl's affectionate nature and
extraordinary beauty. I had no sympathy with
conventual institutions.
When we parted Father John promised to let me
know the result of the suggestion he had made to
Kathleen, that she should enter a religious home,
at least for the time being. I ascertained afterwards
that she accepted his proposal and entered the es-
tablishment at Westport, whence, a little later, she
was removed to another establishment near Dublin,
in order that she might finally take the veil.
CHAPTER XXni
With the confession and the death of Eory Bournes
and the release of Michael Creenan, all excuse for
my presence in Mylrea was at an end. The mys-
tery was solved, the lovers were united, and I was
at liberty to pack up my traps and depart; yet for
some reason, which I feared to explain even to my-
self, I lingered.
I had taken my farewells, I had spent several
pleasant evenings with Father John and the doctor,
the latter of whom, good soul, bore me little or no
malice ; I had been visited and thanked by Michael
Creenan ; but there was another good-bye I hesitated
to speak, however much I tried to force myself to do
so. Twice had I gone to Craig Castle intending to
take farewell of Miss Craig, and twice had I left
with that good-bye unsaid. At last, one morning
in December, the postman brought me a letter from
my locum ^e7i^?is, .demanding my immediate return
to town.
"You've been long enough away," he wrote, "to
have become a regular nationalised Irishman; but
you must leave your romantic surroundings and
come back to solid hard work. Another operation
I
\
254 FATHER ANTHONY i
I
i
has to be performed upon Mrs. Lennox, and she "i
won't let anybody but you perform it; so pray hurry
up, for delay is getting serious, and you ought to be |
here now."
I called in Andy and told him to pack up my
traps at once, as urgent business called me to Lon- i
don. The honest fellow's face fell. He was gen- [
uinely grieved, and said so, but I comforted him
with the promise that I should return the following ^
year. Then, while he was getting my things to- [
gether, I pulled on my overcoat and walked up to i
Craig Castle. I was shown at once into the draw-
ing-room, where I found Eileen, who came forward
to greet me with a gentle smile.
"This is good-morning, Miss Craig," I said, as
carelessly as I could, "and good-bye."
"Good-bye?" she repeated.
"Yes," I said, "good-bye! It isn't a pleasant
word to say, and I have put off saying it as long as
I could, but Fate is inexorable. I have had a letter
this morning from my colleague, whom I left to take
care of my practice ; and as he says that things cannot
go on longer without me, I must return to London."
"But not at once? " said Eileen. " In a few days
— after Christmas? "
" No, at once. Andy is busy now packing up my
goods, and he will drive me into Kilsyth to-morrow
morning. I confess I am very sorry to leave Ireland."
"You say that now," said Eileen, with a faint at-
FATHER ANTHONY 255
tempt at a smile, " but once you are in London you
will forget us altogether."
My answer was gallant.
"At any rate, I shall never forget you, Miss Craig. *
" Then if you have not forgotten me you will come
back, perhaps?"
" Most assuredly I shall ! " I said. " I begin to
feel quite at home in Ireland."
"We shall all miss you," she cried impulsively,
"and myself most of all. What should I have done
without you? Sure, I know now that God sent you
that dream to bring me a friend in need ! "
I laughed a little sceptically, but in my heart of
hearts I agreed with her. A very short residence
in Ireland had cured me of a good deal of my con-
genital scepticism, and made me as superstitious as
the most illiterate peasant. It was high time, in-
deed, that I returned to London, if I was not to lose
all touch with common sense and science, and to
degenerate altogether.
So we parted, with renewed assurances on either
side of faithful friendship. But my leave-takings
were not yet done. That afternoon I drove up on
the car to the abode of the Creenans, to say my last
farewell to the young priest. I found him aJone in
the little room upstairs. His mother and his
brother were away at Castlebar, transacting some
business connected with the recent trial. Father
Anthony sat by the window reading his breviary,
i
256 FATHER ANTHONY
and looking from time to time out on the lonely
prospect of mountain and moor.
He greeted me with a gentle smile, and when I
told him that I was going away he expressed his
regret in a few kindly words. I hardly knew how
to reply to him, for I had a presentiment that we
should never meet * again ; nay, it was more than a
presentiment, for I had long perceived in his pale,
sunken cheek, his dark burning eyes, his attenuated
form, the signs which a physician dreads. As I
held his thin, fevered hand I thought of what Cole-
ridge had said after he had grasped the hand of
Keats : " There is death in that hand ! "
"I don't want to alarm you,* I said, "but I must
warn you to take care of yourself. I don't like that
cough, and I wish you to promise me to remain as
much indoors as you can, till the spring is a cer-
tainty."
He smiled and nodded.
"Sure ril take good care," he said, "but I'm not
so weak as you think, doctor; and for that matter
I'm content to live or die, just as God wills."
I could not help saying, "Well, it is a dull life
for one so young ! "
"The life of a priest? " he asked. "I thought so
once, but now my mind has changed altogether, and
I am quite content. It is something, after all, to
make others happy, is it not? And a priest can at
least do that."
FATHER ANTHONY 257
Our eyes met, and I saw that he realised my
knowledge of his secret, of the love and self-sacrifice
which had beautified his life. As I pressed his
hand my eyes grew dim, and, filled for the moment
with his own simple faith and trust, I murmured a
"God bless you " as we parted.
* ' m * « *
A year had passed away, and I was seated in my
study in Wigmore Street, when a servant entered
and handed me a card. I glanced at the card care-
lessly, and read to my astonishment the name on
it:—
Eev. John Croly, P.P.
Almost before I could get my breath I was hold-
ing a plump little hand in mine and gazing into the
bright, weather-beaten, honest face of the parish
priest of Mylrea.
"I was on a visit to England, doctor," he cried,
spreading out his broad chest and placing his head
on one side, while he closed one eye to inspect me
with the other, " and I thought I'd call on ye. I
may tell ye, sir, that I never was in London before,
and that it's a mighty big city after Kilsyth, or for
that matter Dublin itself. And how's the world
using you, doctor? Are ye still a bachelor? By
the twinkle of your eye I'll wager you're mar-
ried!"
I assured him that he was mistaken, and that I
17
268 FATHER ANTHONY
was still untied, if not literally unattached. Not
without some persuasion I made him promise to
dine with me, for he seemed to think I was too busy
and too great a man to have my time taken up by
visitors. However, I overruled his objections, and
we spent that evening pleasantly together, I ques-
tioning him about all my Irish friends, and he enlarg-
ing in his droll way on all the news he was able to
give me.
"Sure they're to be married in Serapht," he said,
speaking of Michael and Eileen, "and a fine pair
they'll make, sir! The young mistress asked me
to make you promise to dance at the wedding."
Serapht is the time of Shrovetide, when marriages
are made and arranged in Western Ireland.
I laughed, and promised if possible to be present,
though I feared that my professional avocations
would detain me in London.
He had not yet mentioned the name of Father
Anthony. Curious, and not a little anxious to hear
if my fears were likely to be realised, I questioned
him. In a moment his face grew sad, and sighing
deeply he crossed himself as he replied : —
"The poor boy's troubles are over — a month ago
we laid him in his grave! "
Then, brushing his hand across his eyes, which
had grown dim with manly tears, he continued : —
"He was too good for this world, doctor, and so I
tell ye. He was the stuff the Lord uses to make
FATHER ANTHONY 259
eaiiits and angels out of, and he carried the heavy
load ia his heart when he became a priest. Though
his heart was as clean as a, lily flower, aud he was
faithful to his vows in thought and deed, he was
meant for the sunshine and not for the shadow; and
sure a priest's life is lonesome, and Anthony was but
a boy. All through last winter he held up boldly,
and went about with a shining face, and sure none
of us thought that the hand of Death was on him.
When the summer came he became brighter still,
and there was a new bloom on his cheek and a new
light in his eye. But all the time he was pining
and withering, and one man knew it — saw it all
along, and my heart bled for him, and I tried to
comfort him, and sure I think sometimes he loved
me like my own son."
"Do you think he was unhappy? °
"No, sir,' replied the little priest with decision.
"He was not unhappy, but his happiness^saints
rest his soul!— wasn't that of a living, breathing
man; it was quiet-like and restful — a still, deep
water shining up to the sky, sir! 'Twas the wind
from up there was blowing on him and wasting
away his substance ; and when the winter came he
took to his bed, for he was only skin and bone.
But even when I went to him he had the bright
smile for me, and the loving word, and when he
passed away 'twas like a child going to sleep, tired
out and weary, and glad to close its eyes! "
260 FATHER ANTHONY
He was silent and tears v/ere rolling down his
cheeks. At last he said softly : —
* He's better where he is, doctor, for he was too
gentle for this hard world. I took my last look at
him when he was lying all alone in his priest's
dress, in the old Cathedral of Kilsyth ; and the peo-
ple had come and gone, and the night had fallen,
and the cold moon was looking in, and there he lay
— God bless him ! — his hands folded on his breast,
and his eyes closed, sleeping all alone ! I thought
to myself how lonesome it was for the poor boy to
be sleeping there — him that should have been bright
and happy, and smiling out in the sunshine ; and I
knelt down by him and said a prayer for him, and
put my lips to his brow, and the next day I followed
him to his last home."
He paused again, crossed himself, and placed his
hand over his eyes.
"And Miss Eileen?" I said. "Did she see him
towards the end?"
"She did," was the reply; "but sure she never
guessed, and Michael never guessed, what had been
hidden so long in the poor boy's heart — how he had
given away his life for his brother and turned from
the light o' day to the peace o' God. He'd killed
the love in his heart long before, sir, but he'd killed
his own happiness as well; but he never wavered,
and he never repented, and he kept his faith with the
Lord, and sure enough God will give him reward ! "
FATHER ANTHONY 2C1
" Poor Father Anthony ! " I said.
"You may well say that!" returned the little
priest.
And he repeated as if to himself: —
"Poor Father Anthony ! "
THE END
^^C(;^.|;»X
."ik'^H
tv :. . n . "k.y- p,.
H\Nv^.
THE MONEY SENSE.
By John Strange Winter. Is a book which must stand unique
in modern literature because the character of Angelique Dods-
worth, the heroine, is an original conception. She was a charm-
ing creature, with the sense of the value of money very imper-
fectly developed. The story of her going to London from her
humble home at Beech Croft, and eventually marrying a title,
is fascinating in both plot and style. It is a first-class story.
Cloth bound. . . . . . . . $1.25
FATHER ANTHONY.
By Robert Buchanan. " One of the most touching and dra-
matic stories ever written in connection with Irish life. It
is a heart-stirring story; and it is the more attractive because
Mr. Buchanan writes of Irish life from personal knowledge,
and describes places and people with which, and with whom,
he has had a long familiarity. Father John is a typical Irish
character. Mr. Buchanan has never conceived a more finely-
drawn character than Father Anthony. The book can be
heartily commended to all classes of readers." — London
Weekly Sun. Ten editions have been sold in London. Cloth
bound. ........ 1.50
THE SONG OF THE SWOBB, a Bomance of 1796.
By Leo Ditrichstein. This author needs no introduction to
the public. In this thrilling story he displays a perfect wealth
of plots and critical situations. It is an excellent work, fine
and subtle, with many exciting scenes. A spirit of chivalrous
romance exudes from each chapter. There is in fact an odor
of romance all about it. The work spent on the central figures
is splendid, and the entire book satisfies the demand for com-
bined entertainment and interest in a historical novel. Cloth
bound. Illustrated. ...... 1.50
WIDOW MAGOOGIN.
By John J. Jennings. The inimitable Irish widow's philosophy
on the topics of the day, spoken in her own dialect, is won-
derfully funny. As a critic the " Irish widow " touches upon
the foibles of fads and fashions with masterly sarcasm, and
Mr. Jennings, in his art, has characterized her with skilful
touches true to nature. Cloth bound. . . 1.25
MATTHEW DOTLE.
By Will Garland. This is a powerful story, and one with an
object. The vital question of lynching is its theme, and ar-
guments on both sides of the subject are ably set forth. The
author has written with spirit and drawn his characters with
firm and clear strokes. It is original, exciting, and shows
clearly the true position of the negro in the south, in an un-
prejudidal manner. It is a great book. Qoth bound. 1.25
CONOSESSUAK HARDIE.
By Courtney Wellington. A self-made man, and a thorough
democrat like Congressman Hardie, will always be an inter-
esting character, and one that appeals to all genuine Ameri-
cans. The romance pervading the pages of the book is a
delicate one, and skilfully interwoven with the various politi-
cal events. The heroine is an original conception on the part
of the writer, and we see her in some phases of city life not
before portrayed in romance. Qoth bound. . 1.25
AMY WABBEN.
By A. Sydney Logan, Author of " Not on the Chart." The
appeal of this story lies in its naturalness. The hero, Harold
Littleton, is not an impossible conception, but a real man of
flesh and blood, faults and virtues. A new phase of American
country life is also set forth with great fidelity. The worth
of this book to the average reader is in the immediate re-
freshment and absolute change of ideas he can get by opening
its pages anywhere. It contains some fine imaginative work
and has heroic love for its theme. Cloth bound, gilt top. 1.50
EATHABINE BABBY.
By Harry Hughes. The sacrifice of sentiment to religion is
always. a fascinating topic. In the case of this novel, it is
particularly so, because of the earnestness and evident sincerity
of the devoted young girl. She was only a farmer's daughter,
but she passed through most extraordinary experiences, even
to being the medium of psychic-phenomena. It is a most in-
teresting book. Cloth bound, gilt top. . . . 1.25
MISS HOGG ; The American Heiress.
By Mrs. V. C. Jones. The adventures of an American girl in
London are used as the foundation of this story. Miss Hogg
was an uncultured heiress, bent on capturing a coronet. In
furtherance of her plans, she uses almost desperate means,
and places herself in very perilous situations. Her Ameri-
can wit, however, helps her safely through them all, and, at
the close of the book she is respected and happy. Cloth
bound, gilt top, . . . • . . 1.50
nrVISIBlE DGHT; or, The Electric Theory of Creation.
By George W. Warder. " He holds there are only three ele-
mental substances in nature: spirit, electricity and matter.
Matter is controlled by electricity, and electricity is controlled
by spirit intelligence. That in discovering electricity man
has found the working force of Deity, and uses it in all fields
of human effort. The arguments are convincing, and the
book attractive and entertaining." — The Kansas City Star.
Beautifully bound in cloth. • . • • 1.25
GETTYSBXTRG, THEN AND NOW.
The Field of American Valor. By J. M. Vanderslice. The
new illustrated History of Gettysburg, where and how the
Regiments fought and the troops they encountered. A mag-
nificent Quarto Volume with 125 full page illustrations, views
of the battle ground and the monuments now on the field.
This magnificent volume is the best and most concise history
of the great battle, Octavo 492 pages, Cloth bound. 3.50
THE VEIL WITHDBAWN.
By Berton J. Maddux. A tragic beginning makes a happy end-
ing all the more agreeable. The opening pages of this enter-
taining book relate a murder, and not until the end of the story
is the identity of the criminal established. The interest is
chained by this sustained mystery, and its denouement is a
total surprise. It is a spirited and most interesting work.
Cloth bound. . . . . . . 1.25
THE MEUOIBS OF VICTOB HTTOO.
Translated by John V7. Harding. " Great scenes described by 1
the most vivid word-artist of the century." — New York World.
" Full of the most characteristic bits, sentences or whole
paragraphs that no one but Hugo could have written." — New
York Times Saturday Review. Cloth bound, gilt top. 2.50
BISIKO FOBTTJNES.
By John Oxenham. Author of " The Princess of Vascovy,"
" God's Prisoner," etc. The London advent of two poor, but
talented young Scotchmen from the country, is the founda-
tion of this splendid story. Their various adventures are
carefully depicted in a manner that rivets the attention, and
nothing is overdrawn. In this lies the charm of the book,
rendering it beyond compare with stories of its class. The
writer is gifted, and the work sure to meet a cordial recep-
tion. Cloth bound. ...... 1.50
THE DEOENEBATION OF DOBOTHY.
By Frank Kinsella. This story is extraordinarily clever, and
will please the honest reader in search of something unusual.
The theme is the transfusion of blood and its wonderful ef-
fect upon character. Poor helpless Dorothy had to degenerate,
but happily, science explained the phenomenon. The writer
has produced a fascinating and original book, and one lays
it down with the earnest desire to read more from the same
pen. Cloth bound. ...... 1.50
THE BOND OF BLACK.
By Wm. Le Queux. This is another charming and spell-bind-
ing story by the wonderfully successful author of " If Sinners
Entice Thee," " The Day of Temptation," etc., and is one of
the best novels of the year. Cloth bound. . . 1.50
DON COSME.
By T. H. Tyndale. The author here introduces us to a wealthy
Southern family. The favorite daughter loves an alleged
Mexican, Don Cosme, who is proven to have colored blood in
his veins, yhe scene of the girl spurning him at the altar is
very impressive and dramatic. It is an unsavory incident,
but one frought with significance. There is unlimited food
for thought throughout the book, which should especially ap-
peal to Southerners. The essential idea of the work is treated
with great force and fulness. Cloth bound. . . 1.25
JACK CBEWS.
By Martha Frye Boggs. A brilliant new novel, dedicated to
the railroad engineers of America, one of whom is the hero
of the story. The plot is well sustained, the hero an impress-
ive character. The book is full of action, it is dramatic and
will hold the reader's attention to the end. Cloth bound. 1.50
THE VUHHY SIDE OP POUTICS.
By George S. Hilton. Nothing has ever been written like this
book. It gives many amusing stories told in the House and
Senate in Washington. The book is replete with anecdotes of
many living politicians. Their names are given, as well as
the occasion which called forth the stories. Third edition.
Cloth bound. . . . . . . . 1.25
THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP.
By Henry Seton Merriman. Author of " The Sowers,"
" Young Mistley," " Dross," etc. There is a ring and thrill
to this story due in part to its unusual theme. It is written
with all the characteristic power of the author, and will meet
a tremendous sale. Illustrated and Cloth bound, gilt top. 1.50
THE SACSIPICE OP SILENCE.
By Edouard Rod. Translated by John W. Harding. M. Rod
shows, with consummate art and in two widely contrasting
examples, that silence under certain conditions constitutes a
heroic sacrifice, so generous in its abnegation, and in one case,
in which the unblemished reputation of a wife and mother is
involved, so unflinchingly steadfast, as to impart a character
of nobleness and grandeur to the sin of prohibited love and
its inevitable accompaniments, lying, deceit and hypocrisy.
Cloth bound, gilt top. . . . . . 1.50
A PEINCESS OP VASCOVT.
By John Oxenham. Author of " God's Prisoner." A story
that will win thousands of admirers. It is an artistic concep-
tion ; a true romance, which has about it a quality of real life.
It is a dramatic tale equal in many respects to the " Prisoner
of Zenda," and fully as interesting. Qoth bound, gilt top. 1.50
THE HAN WHO DABED.
By John P. Ritter. Mr. Ritter has achieved a work of rare
interest. It is a great historical picture of the time of Robes-
pierre, in which fact and fancy are welded together in a fine
realization of the spirit of the times. It has all the elements
of a genuine romance, and is an unusually fascinating his-
torical romance. Illustrated. Goth bound, gilt top. 1.25
THE DAY OF TEKPTATION.
By Wm. Le Queux. This is one of this author's best stories.
• It is thrilling and realistic, and bears out a mystery which
carries the» reader through a labyrinth of strange experiences.
Cloth bound. ....... 1.50
THE STOSY OF THE SOUGH BIDEBS.
By Edward Marshall. The most intensely interesting book of
modern times. It is devoted entirely to this one famous regi-
ment. It contains a complete roster of the regiment, and is
profusely illustrated from photographs and drawings. Qoth
bound. ........ 1.50
WATEBS THAT PASS AWAY.
By N. B. Winston. " There is a deep lesson of life to be
learned from a book like this, and in it one may study charac-
ter, and the infallible trend of social consequences, sorrow
ever following sin, and sin in its turn yielding to joy when
true repentance follows after." — Philadelphia Item. Qoth
bound. ........ 1.25
THE BETTTBN OF THE O'MAHONY.
By Harold Frederic. To those who have read " The Damna-
tion of Theron Ware," and " Seth*s Brother's Wife," there
will be found in this extremely delightful novel, " The Re-
turn of the O'Mahony," a book that will gratify the reader
much more than any other book of the times. Illustrated, and
with portrait of the author. Cloth bound, deckle edge, gih
top 1.50
6
A CHEQUE FOB THBEE THOUSAin).
By Arthur Henry Veysey. (Tenth edition.) It's a jolly good
story, bright and clear. Dramatic, full of life and action and
a brilliant farce from end to end. You cannot put it down
until you finish it, and you will mention it many a time when
you want to relate something novel and odd among your
friends. Attractively bound in cloth. . . i.oo
A FEDI6BEE IN FAWN.
By Arthur Henry Veysey. Author of " A Cheque for Three
Thousand," which has run into its seventh edition. Original,
bright, sparkling fun runs all through " A Pedigree in Pawn."
It will be talked about and laughed over more than any other
book of the year. Illustrated with 14 character drawings.
Cloth bound 1.25
HATS OFF.
By Arthur Henry Veysey. Author of " A Cheque for Three
Thousand," etc. A splendid story for summer reading. Are
you tired, blue? Read Hats Off! Do you want a story
for the hammock? Read Hats Off! Do you want a story
with " go," with an original plot ? Read Hats Off ! Do you
want to laugh? Read Hats Off! Cloth bound. . 1.25
Paper covers. . 50
THE STATEBOOM OFFOSITE.
By Arthur Henry Veysey. Author of "A Cheque for Three
Thousand," etc. Is a well balanced detective story. It is
not overdrawn as such books usually are, but full of mysterious
and vital interest. It is a departure from Mr. Veysey's previous
humorous style in " A Cheque for Three Thousand," and " A
Pedigree in Pawn," proving him to be a remarkably versatile
writer. Most of the events take place on shipboard. It is a
powerful story, with a most dramatic climax, and inimitably
original characters. Cloth bound. . . . 1.25
Paper covers. ... 50
CLEO THE HAGNIFICENT; or, The Muse of the Beal.
By Louis Zangwill. The Boston Times says : " The story is
drawn with a master hand and the characters stand forth in
clear relief. It is in every way worthy of Mr. Zangwill's
reputation;" One of the best novels of the year. Goth
bound. ........ 1.50
1
THE DBONES HTTST DIE. I '^
By Max Nordau. Sixth Edition. " As purely original as if no
other novel had ever been written. The open secret of such
writing is that it is the result of the experience and the ob-
servation of one of the keenest observers — a man who exag-
gerates nothing and sets down naught in malice, but sees with
incomparable clearness, and writes down what he sees." —
The Bookseller and Newsman, .... 2.00
TWO ODD OIBIS.
A charming novel, by John A. Peters. A bright, clever and
interesting story is this, with a vein of humor underlying and
running through it The style of the novel is brilliant and
will be read with pleasure and avidity by all who peruse its
first page. Qoth bound. . . . . ♦ 1.50
MOTHER TSXTTH'S KELODIES.
By Mrs. E. P. Miller. A kindergarten of the most useful
knowledge for children, 450 illustrations. " Every lover of
children and of truth will be interested in this charming book ;
every house in the land should have a copy; it will entertain
and instruct more truly and more sensibly than any other j
book. It is made up of simple stories in verse, the jingle of
which may be music in the children's ears, and the pictures a
delight to little eyes; made in a form to attract the attention
of the smallest children, and one to readily fix in their mem-
ory the stories told." Cloth bound. . . . 1.50
I
THE TWENTIETH CENTURY COOK BOOK. V
By Mrs. C. F. Moritz and Adele Kahn. A modern and com-
plete household cook book such as this is, since cooking has
come to be a science no less than an art must find a welcome
and become the most popular cook book of all the many now
published.
" It can hardly be realized that there is anything worth eating
that its receipt cannot be found in this volume. This volume
has been carefully compiled and contains not only the re-
ceipts for an elaborate menu, but also the modest ones have
been considered." — Bookseller and Newsman. Bound in oil
cloth, for kitchen use. . . . . . 1.50
8
THE WHITE DEVIL OF VEBDE.
By Lucie France Pierce. This is a story of pure love and
stirring action. It is crisp, bright, often thrilling and is ex-
ceptionally well-written, the style is clear, and the plot dis-
tinctly life-like. There is not a character introduced that does
not make an immediate and successful appeal to the imagina-
tion of the reader. It is a delightful tale of Western life.
Cloth bound. . . ... . . . 1.25
TBTJE DETECTIVE STOBIES.
From the Pinkerton Archives. By Cleveland Moffett. The
absorbing stories told here by Mr. Moffett are statements of
actual facts repeated without exaggeration or false coloring.
The author, by the help of the Pinkerton Agency, has given
the inside history of famous cases which the general public
only know of through newspaper accounts. Cloth bound. .75
THE COMPLETE WOBHS OF ABTEMUS WABD.
(Charles Farrar Browne.)
With a biographical sketch of the author by Melville D. Lan-
DON. The present edition is of a work which has been for
more than thirty years prominently before the public, and
which may justly be said to have maintained a standard char-
acter. It is issued because of a demand for a better edition
than has ever been published.
In order to supply this acknowledged want, the publishers have
enlarged and perfected this edition by adding some matter
not heretofore published in book form.
A large i2mo. printed from new electro plates, with 28 full page
illustrations, and Photogravure Portrait of the author, hand-
somely bound in cloth, gilt top. .... 2.00
AN AHEBICAN CITIZEN.
By Madeleine Lucette Ryley. The fact that the play of " An
American Citizen" has had the most successful run of any
modern drama should guarantee a wide sale of this book. The
talented and successful writer has displayed a wonderful skill
in developing the plot, all the outlines of the play are artis-
tically rounded into a complete novel, which the reader will
find intensely interesting from the first line to the end. Cloth
bound. ........ 1.50
9
THE RAINBOW FEATHER.
By Fergus Hume. Author of "The Mystery of a Hansom
Cab," "Qaude Duval of Ninety-five," etc., etc. Published
simultaneously with the London edition. Thi^ is a wonder-
fully clever story, intensely interesting, the mystery is kept up
to the end, and when the reader lays down the book it is with
the satisfaction of having been fully entertained by a remark-
ably fascinating tale. Qoth bound. • • • 1^5
HOVSES OF GLASS.
By Wallace Lloyd^ M.D. It is more important than most
books, and deserves special attention for several reasons.
From a purely literary standpoint it has claims, being exceed-
ingly well-written, and most profoundly felt. Besides being
founded upon philosophy, the story is firm, clear-cut, and so
interesting as to lift the book far above the level of ordinary
romances. Qoth bound. 1.50
BEVERLY OSGOOD; or^ Wken the Great City is Awake.
By Jane Valentine. This romance sets forth New York life
as seen by a student of city conditions of both rich and poor.
In Nina Palermo, the heroine, is a convincing illustration of
the fearful effect of evil circumstances on the life of an inno-
cent and beautiful but poor girl. The wide influence of truly
good and Christian women toward uplifting the fallen and
quietly aiding reform, is also portrayed in the character of
" My Lady." It is a work which should do much good.
Cloth bound. • 1.50
XT TKHSD THE CAFTAIH; or, Two Yankees in Europe.
By W. L. Terhune. The book is one which has much value
as a guide book for people going abroad. It has much of in-
terest to those who have never been abroad. Mr. Terhune's
camera served him well, and the book is embellished with
a hundred or more illustrations from his photographs. Cloth
bound. •••...•. 1,50
I
4'
L
-"*■'', .■•
-'«:
..»
Live Music
Archive
Librivox
Free Audio
Metropolitan Museum
Cleveland
Museum of Art
Internet
Arcade
Console Living Room
Open Library
American
Libraries
TV News
Understanding
9/11